


Arranged

by MizJoely



Series: Knot Your Average Couple [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Omegaverse, Regency Era AU, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:15:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Omegaverse Regency-Period Sherlolly story. No, seriously. With Knotting and everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [broomclosetkink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/broomclosetkink/gifts).



“This is an incredible waste of time.”

John rolled his eyes and sighed, the long-suffering sigh of a man who is near the end of his patience. He watched as his friend paced the small room in which they'd been instructed to wait. The problem with Alphas – especially unbonded Alphas – was their tempers. Although Sherlock had managed what had always been believed to be the impossible and made it to his middle twenties without having taken a Bondmate or even once having availed himself of the services of an Omega in Heat, family pressure was finally bearing down on him.

Today was the fourth time he was to meet a supposedly suitable Omega, one that he might be inclined to take to wife, to Bond with, to bear his children...and here he was, as always, acting like a child himself. Scowling, pacing, smoking that ridiculous Meerschaum pipe he favored, running his hands through his hair and disarranging his dark curls into a mess his valet would no doubt despair over were he to see it.

“It's not a waste of time if you meet the right woman, Sherlock,” John said placatingly, watching his friend continue to pace while remaining comfortably ensconced in his chair by the window. “Besides, it's your duty to produce heirs, and your parents have allowed you far more leeway than you've a right to expect.”

Sherlock's scowl deepened as he stopped in front of John. “You're a fine one to talk John Hamish Watson,” he spat out, every syllable dripping with aggravation. “You're a Beta; your wife is a Beta, your children will no doubt all be Betas. All society expects of you is for you to live your lives as you see fit; there's no one forcing you into something you are ill equipped to handle – ”

His mouth snapped shut, but too late. John grinned and leaned back in his chair, lacing his hands across his stomach as he looked up at his friend. “Why, what's this? The great Sherlock Holmes admitting to being ill equipped to handle anything? Even something as mundane as a wife?” A note of gleeful mockery entered his voice. “I must speak to Mother Hudson; I do believe the Apocalypse is upon us at last!”

Sherlock gave him a withering glare before whirling around to once again resume his agitated pacing. “It is not that I feel myself incapable of acting as a husband, John, don't be ridiculous!” he snapped as he reached the wall opposite John's seat by the French windows. “It is simply that I do not feel the need! I have channeled my so-called 'aggressive nature' into the work I do with Lestrade and his Bow Street Runners and I do not need an Omega to 'calm me down'!”

The last was said in a near roar of frustration, which John gallantly refrained from pointing out to his friend, choosing instead to merely raise an eyebrow as Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. Yes, Sherlock had, under normal circumstances, an admirable amount of control over his Alpha nature, but lately that control had been slipping, although the other man was still deep in denial as to the reasons for that loss of control.

Put simply, Sherlock needed to Bond with an Omega. If his parents hadn't already taken steps to remedy his marital status, John might have been tempted to enlist Mycroft Holmes or Greg Lestrade in dragging the younger Holmes brother to an Omega House and finally ridding him of his virginity – and more than a decade of pent-up aggression.

Sherlock had returned to pacing again, while John patiently watched. The two men were in one of the smaller retiring rooms off the main salon, where the meeting was due to take place in less than half an hour. Normally Mycroft would be the one to stand by his brother's side at the scheduled appointment, but since he, too was an Alpha, it was scarcely appropriate – or safe. Even though Mycroft had Bonded and married his own Omega nearly a decade past, if this potential bride turned out to be at all compatible with Sherlock, his instincts could possibly cause him to challenge the other man, or even, as had happened in far too many cases, drive him to attack what he would perceive as a potential rival.

The only males in the room when Sherlock met the young lady in question – her name, John recalled after a moment's effort, was Miss Molly Hooper – would be Betas. Thus John Watson's presence, and that of Sherlock's valet, Wiggins – who really would be horrified by the state of his master's hair if Sherlock didn't stop raking his fingers through it. 

Oh, but there would be one other male Alpha in the room, John recalled. Miss Hooper's father was an Alpha, but a weak one, and a blood relative, so his presence was to be permitted. Unusually, Miss Hooper's mother was also an Alpha, rumored to be a stronger one than her husband, although of course such rumors would never be addressed aloud. As long as they'd raised a properly submissive Omega daughter, society would politely look the other way and allow the couple their eccentricities.

Just as they allowed the Holmeses theirs, John reflected with an internal chuckle. Lord Holmes and his wife were also an Alpha-Alpha pairing, who had produced two of the strongest Alpha males any noble bloodline had seen in centuries. However, that was where all similarities ended, if the report Sherlock had shared with John was to be believed. Lord and Lady Holmes were far more equally matched than Miss Hooper's parents, and in spite of their offspring's decidedly unsociable life choices – Mycroft had elected to not only enter into politics, but was in trade as well, and Sherlock's relationship with the Inspector Lestrade's Bow Street Runners was hardly the sort of activity a well-bred noble's son was expected to indulge in – they lived a much more staid and proper life.

So staid and proper, in fact, that they'd finally insisted that Sherlock settle down into his family responsibilities and produce more grandchildren for them. Mycroft's two daughters and three sons, of course, were not enough. All highborn Alphas were expected to demonstrate their superiority, and ensure their family lines, by producing as many offspring as possible. And Sherlock Holmes, younger son or not, was not excluded from that requirement.

A sound of a discreet knock at the door signaled the arrival of the Hooper family. John scolded Sherlock into straightening his cravat, which he'd knocked askew, and smoothing his hair, then busied himself opening the door to admit the butler, Andrews. “Miss Hooper and her parents, sir,” he said with a bow.

Sherlock merely scowled and brushed past him, which the butler ignored, being long used to the young master's brusqueness. John once again found himself rolling his eyes as he followed his friend. With luck and perhaps the blessings of the Gods, this young woman would be the one. Sherlock would finally release some of the pent-up Alpha energy he'd been containing since puberty, and John and his wife might actually spend more than two nights in a row not being interrupted by their friend's restlessness, which resulted far too often in John being dragged from his comfortable fireside on some wild adventure or other Sherlock had concocted.

Not that he minded those wild adventures; when too much time passed between them, as had rarely happened since the two men became friends nearly five years earlier, John found that, in spite of his normally placid Beta nature, he, too became restless. As if some of Sherlock's Alpha energy had transferred itself to his friend. Mary's opinion was that perhaps her husband was so strong a Beta that, but for a trick of biology, he might have been an Alpha himself. John's teasing response to her was that she simply fancied being Knotted, which invariably caused her to blush and scold him...but never without pausing first, as if considering the idea and finding it very much to her liking.

John put such pleasant thoughts from his mind as he and Sherlock entered the salon, tastefully decorated in blue and cream in the French style, as was the current fashion. Lord and Lady Holmes were there, seated on the divan; Lady Holmes inclined her head to John and held out her hand to her son, which he dutifully kissed before throwing himself down on the seat opposite theirs. John took his place behind Sherlock and slightly to the left, as tradition demanded, folded his hands behind his back, and awaited the arrival of the Hoopers.

Lord Holmes he ignored completely, as the man did him. They had never enjoyed one another's company, and ever since Sherlock had discovered his father's infidelity, the relationship between the two Alphas had been strained at best. Were Mycroft able to attend these meetings with potential mates, John knew, he himself would not be made welcome, as he was deemed an 'unfavorable influence' on Sherlock. Lord Holmes blamed him for leading Sherlock to the discovery of his father's mistress, one Lady Irene Adler – and for the fact that the lady in question had then attempted to seduce her lover's son. That had ended...not well. Lady Holmes, of course, had forgiven her husband for his indiscretion, Lady Adler had been banished from a number of wealthy family's salons once the nature of her relationship with Lord Holmes had been revealed to his wife, and Sherlock had, in John's opinion, escaped the clutches of an avaricious adventuress. Yes, his friend dearly needed to avail himself of feminine companionship, but not that woman's.

 _Let this one be the right one,_ he thought to himself as Sherlock's father rose to his feet. “Do be polite, Sherlock,” he admonished his son as he prepared to leave the room. “I'll not have another angry father railing at me because you've reduced his daughter to tears with your deductions. If you feel you are not a suitable match – if your instincts do not draw you to her – then pray be courteous in your rejection.”

Then he left, after depositing a glower at both his son and John, both of whom remained impassive in the face of his ill temper. In this matter only John could not feel the man was being unreasonable; after all, he'd witnessed Sherlock's rudeness to the first three young Omegas to whom he'd been introduced. 

Of course, it was true that the first one was actually a weak Beta whose parents were attempting to pass her off as an Omega. And the second one truly did have a grasping, obvious nature that the dullest wit could have deduced – although undoubtedly to far less devastating effect. And the third one had been, simply put, dull. Sherlock didn't just need an Omega to satisfy his sexual appetites; he needed a clever woman, one who would engage his mind as well as his body. Someone very like Lady Irene, was John's reluctant conclusion now that he'd allowed himself to muse on the matter. Only with a conscience. A clever Omega was, perhaps, unusual, but certainly not unheard of.

“Stop it, John.”

Startled, John glanced down at his friend. “I haven't said or done anything,” he protested in a murmur after offering Sherlock's mother an apologetic smile.

“You're thinking too loudly,” was his friend's curt response.

John was about to protest so ridiculous an accusation when a discreet knock sounded at the double doors to the salon. “Come in,” Lady Holmes called out, while John straightened his posture and snapped his mouth shut, watching from the corner of his eye as Sherlock sat up a bit straighter and clasped his hands together on his knee. He would be watching the door like the proverbial hawk, John knew, waiting for this newest potential Bondmate and bride to enter the room.

John hoped for her sake – for all of their sakes – that Miss Molly Hooper wasn't about to be shredded beneath the claws of the predator Sherlock's clever mind could far too easily become.

oOo

Even if he hadn't been facing the door, Sherlock would have known the Omega was there; her scent was strong, far stronger than the aromas exuded by the other women who had paraded themselves through this room in an attempt to win so eligible a bachelor as husband and Bondmate. A prize, he often felt himself, like a bull or stallion put out to stud. Ridiculous, revolting, to be treated as nothing more than breeding stock, but it was not only expected but veritably demanded of a nobleman's son that he produce offspring and preserve the bloodline. Mycroft had already performed admirably in that arena, why couldn't that be enough for either society, about whom Sherlock could not possibly care less, or their own parents?

Such thoughts had been preying on his mind for the past fortnight, the length of time in which he'd been forced into the role of Alpha suitor seeking an Omega Bondmate to take to wife. If it weren't for the fact that he had established so engrossing a working relationship with Inspector Lestrade, he might have simply left the country and forged a life on the Continent for himself.

But then, his mother would undoubtedly be heartbroken if her youngest living son were to abandon his family responsibilities; memories of his elder brother Vernet's untimely demise after defying custom and doing just that flashed through Sherlock's mind. No, he could never do that to Mummy, put her through the type of pain Vernet had done. 

So he endured these meetings, firmly convinced that the 'right woman' for him simply did not exist.

Then Molly Hooper came fully into the room, and Sherlock suddenly found himself on his feet, heart pounding in his chest as his every sense focused exclusively on her.

Eyesight: She was not beautiful, certainly not in the conventional sense, although her features were regular and attractive enough, if one were looking at her through unbiased eyes. Her hair was an agreeable chestnut with auburn highlights, pulled back and piled neatly on her head beneath a ridiculous bonnet. Her figure was slight and willowy, her breasts small but well formed beneath her girlish pink gown; her lips were small as well, but served only to make her expressive brown eyes seem even larger in her heart-shaped face. Her ears were pierced, unusual but not unseemly, and she wore small seed pearl earrings that dangled just below her well-shaped lobes.

Hearing: Her voice was quiet, but not timid, as she politely greeted his mother, although she gave a slight gasp as she turned to face Sherlock, who hadn't realized he'd moved until suddenly he found himself by her side. Her parents remained in the background, uninteresting to him, both Alphas but no threats, boring, easily dismissed as he waited for Miss Hooper to say something more. His mother was speaking, saying something he ignored, although he thought he might have heard his own name, but it wasn't her lips he wished to hear forming those syllables, it was the small but well-shaped lips of the young woman now facing him, those were the lips he wished to hear speaking his name. “I, I'm very pleased to make your a-acquaintence, Mr. Holmes,” she said, and his heart thudded ever more strenuously in his chest – nearly loud enough to drown out the sound of her own increased heartbeat, but not quite.

Scent: The scent of her was everywhere, cinnamon and vanilla with something sharp and almost chemical teasing his nostrils as he noted the sudden dilation of her eyes and the fluttering of her hand as it came to rest on her bosom. All other odors faded into insignificance compared to her natural Omega scent, which threatened to overwhelm him as the chemical notes seemed to spike and sharpen, overtaking the sweeter tones.

Touch: He reached out and grasped her hand in his, feeling the smallness of her fingers as they were enfolded in his. Even beneath the sedate layer of the knit gloves she wore, he could feel the burning of her flesh against his, as if she were feverish. Her face and neck were flushed, and he suspected his own would bear the same ruddy hue were he to examine himself, but he had no interest in anything except continuing his analysis of Miss Molly Hooper, and the last, the only thing left to do was taste.

He pulled her closer, yanking her so that their chests mashed together as he crashed his lips to hers, sliding his tongue along her lips until she opened her mouth with a gasp. Triumph flooded through him as he tasted her, exploring her delicate mouth with his tongue, feeling hers shyly meeting his. He was vaguely aware that he'd wrenched off her bonnet at some point during the twelve seconds that had passed since he'd first taken her hand in his, that his fingers were combing through her hair, and that her own hands had entwined themselves behind his neck. She was pressing her body tightly against his, needing no urging from him, her eyes closed as she moaned against his mouth.

He was no stranger to spontaneous erections, having been plagued with them ever since his Alpha nature had first revealed itself during the onset of puberty, but he would have willingly sworn any oath asked of him that his prick had never throbbed so insistently, practically demanding that he stop ignoring his body's needs and allow itself to be buried deeply within the woman he currently held in his arms.

“Sherlock!”

The voice was coming from very far away, difficult to hear over the blood roaring through his veins. He felt someone tugging at his hand and pulled his mouth away from Molly's long enough to growl a warning at whoever it was that was attempting to separate him from his mate...wait, no that was wrong, what the hell was going on?!?

His valued clarity of thought returned only after his mother administered a sharp slap to his cheek, causing him to fully release Molly – Miss Hooper – and stumble back from her. It was John's hand he'd felt tugging at his wrist, and as the haze of lust eased a bit the room came back into focus.

Molly's – Miss Hooper's – parents were standing closer than they had been, but far enough away for him to continue to perceive them as not-threats...he growled internally; why was his mind insisting on phrasing things in so barbaric and primitive a manner?

“...heat, Sherlock, it's a spontaneous Heat,” he heard John murmuring to him, his neutral scent and soothing voice helping to ease Sherlock's inexplicable tension.

Well, perhaps not so inexplicable after all, he decided as he processed what John had just told him. Molly, who was being lead away from him by his mother, looked just as dazed as he did, his mate ( _Miss Hooper_! the rational part of his mind snapped) stumbling a bit, unable to tear her eyes from Sherlock's gaze. He felt his lip lifting in a silent snarl as his mother delivered Miss Hooper to her parents, murmuring to them quietly while John tugged at his arm and Wiggins entered the room at a dead run, stopping only to take Sherlock's other arm in his grasp. “Please, Sherlock, you have to leave her, but just for now. Just until Mother Hudson or one of the village priests or priestesses can be summoned,” John was saying, still speaking in that soothing murmur meant to indicate he was no threat, that he wasn't attempting to challenge the Alpha for possession of the enticing Omega female who was no longer in the room.

But her scent lingered, and Sherlock found himself breathing it in deeply even as he allowed John and Wiggins to pull him back into the retiring room in which they'd been ensconced earlier.


	2. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock prepare for the next step in their relationship, separated and entirely displeased to be so.

**Molly**

Molly could barely think as her body flushed head to toe with a rising tide of feverish warmth. She'd endured several Heats since reaching her sixteenth year – late for an Omega but not unheard of – but none had prepared her for what she was currently enduring. Yes, she'd been warned that it was vastly different to experience a Heat on one's own and to experience one with a compatible Alpha nearby, but such warnings had held little meaning to her.

Until now. Until the moment Sherlock Holmes had taken her hand in his, gazing at her with those incredible sea-blue eyes – ever changing, hints of green and gold flashing beyond the dark depths of his widened pupils – and then claimed her with a kiss she still felt tingling on her lips.

She barely noticed as her mother escorted her to a small dressing chamber, where a pair of young Beta maids assisted her in removing her suddenly too-constricting clothing, then helped her into a cool bath that helped cleanse the sweat from her body but did little else to ease the Heat that had so unexpectedly overtaken her.

Her mother was speaking to her, telling her something that was no doubt of utmost importance, but Molly was unable to attend her. The maids were assisting her out of the bath now, patting her down with soft linens that still seemed to scrape at her overly sensitive skin, but she only had room in her heart and mind for one person: Sherlock. Where was he? When would she be allowed to be with him again?

No doubt sensing her daughter's continued distraction, Annabelle Hooper took Molly's hands in hers and squeezed. “Molly,” she said, and her daughter's attention was finally captured, although not in a way either woman was prepared for.

All of Molly's senses seemed sharpened, ever since that intoxicating moment when she first breathed in Sherlock Holmes's scent, when first she laid eyes upon his form, with his his dark, tousled curls and his lean physique and his very, very fine eyes. And when he'd taken her hand then seized her for that powerful, overwhelming kiss...the flashes of warmth and the racing of her heart and the way her breathing had sped and caught by turn had been all the warning she'd received. Then the Heat was upon her, flushing her from toes to hair, causing a tingling in her flesh and a shiver down her spine that had made its way straight to her feminine core, flooding her with moisture in a most agreeable – and frustrating – manner.

The touch of her mother's hands upon her bare flesh, the Alpha scent of her, had nowhere near as devastating an effect as Sherlock's presence had, but it still affected Molly, deep in the throes of the spontaneous Heat, and she reacted accordingly. With a slight whine of submission, she raised her head, presenting her neck in unmistakable invitation.

With an indrawn breath of shock, her mother instantly released her hands and stepped back. “Molly! I must...must leave you in the care of these capable young ladies,” she stuttered out, cheeks flushing with what Molly would recognize later, when she once again regained full control of her mental faculties, as extreme embarrassment.

An emotion she would share, at that much, much later date. For now, all she knew was that once again an Alpha was abandoning her in the midst of her pressing need. With a desperate whine she made as if to follow her mother's rapidly disappearing figure, but the two maids had apparently received strict instructions, and resolutely refused to release her arms once they'd grasped her intentions.

She growled at them, deep in the feral mode that a Heat imposed upon her, but instead of backing away submissively, they wrestled her into a lightweight gown dyed a muted yellow that was soothing to the eye, although even the delicate fabric seemed to chafe at her overheated skin.

Once she'd been clothed, shod (with soft, white slippers on her feet that fit her quite well in spite of not being her own) and her hair pulled into a loose braid at the nape of her neck – she hadn't the ability to submit to anything more ornate in her current state of agitation, even if her thoughts had cleared somewhat after her mother had left the room – she was escorted to the lovely receiving room where she'd first met Sherlock.

His scent lingered, and she felt the tension reasserting itself over her form as her eyes darted around the room, anxious for the sight of him. A slight whine of frustration escaped her throat as she realized there was no one there but herself and her escorts; had they released their grips upon her arms by even a fraction she would have whirled and dashed from the room, scenting the air until she found him, her mate, the one she needed so very desperately. But the two maids maintained their hold on her arms, not even releasing her as one of them closed the door behind them, nor as they escorted her to the nearest settee.

Once seated, she thought they might finally release her, but no, they continued as they had, standing one on either side of her, watching the door with equally excited airs of expectation that Molly soon felt as well. The scent of another – light, not Alpha and definitely not that of her mate – wafted through the air mere seconds before the door opened.

The older female who entered was another Omega, her age the only thing that kept Molly from immediately launching herself at her as a potential challenger for Sherlock's attention. “I am Mother Hudson,” the woman said, her voice pitched low and soothing, although she took care not to approach too closely. Molly managed to nod her head in curt acknowledgment, unsure of her ability to speak without growling as her frustration continued to mount. “I will perform the Handfasting ceremony, Miss Hooper. In order to allow you and Sher – that is, Mr. Holmes,” she corrected herself with an apologetic smile, “to maintain a certain level of decorum during the ceremony, I must insist that you drink this entire glass of wine, and inhale this elixir. The effects of both will be temporary, but will last long enough to allow you to recite your vows to one another.”

The Beta butler who'd originally escorted Molly and her parents into the Holmes residence appeared, bearing a tray holding one glass of what she assumed to be sparkling white wine, as well as a small glass vial of the sort that normally held smelling salts. Since Molly had no need of reviving – indeed, it was all she could do to hold her scattered thoughts in one place at the moment – she deduced it must be something to dull her sense of smell, and asked Mother Hudson to confirm that suspicion, speaking in a raspy voice quite unlike her usual higher-pitched tones, as if she'd contracted a sudden throat ailment. The sound of her own voice startled her, but Mother Hudson simply offered her a sympathetic smile as she responded to Molly's question in the affirmative.

“As I said, once administered it shall allow you to endure the brief ceremony both families have insisted upon, before allowing you and Mr. Holmes to engage in...more intimate congress,” she said delicately.

At least this time she didn't make the mistake of intimating a closeness with Sherlock that Molly's on-edge instincts could easily take offense to. Not that the older Omega was a threat in any way, but Molly had not trust in her own common sense at the moment, and merely nodded her agreement as Andrews presented her with the silver tray. She removed the contents, sipping docilely at the wine but retaining the vial of suppressant in her other hand until Mother Hudson indicated it was time for her to release whatever noxious vapors it might hold into her nostrils.

At least the maids had finally released their grips on her arms, although they continued to hover nearby, as if she might still leap to her feet and attempt an escape from the room. But why should she, when the one she desired was about to be brought to her side? A shiver went over her slight frame at the thought of Sherlock placing his hands in hers, bringing his lips to hers again and claiming him for his own, placing his mark on her throat as she tipped it up to him in sweet submission...

It was, she had to admit as her mind cleared a bit with every sip of the wine – an irony, she found, since wine always seemed to have the decidedly opposite effect not only on her but on anyone she'd observed imbibing! – a far cry from how she'd felt when her parents informed her that she was to be brought to meet a potential highborn Alpha to take to husband.

To put it bluntly, she'd been terrified. What training or education had she, simple Marguerite Anne Hooper, who had gone by 'Molly' for so long that even her parents introduced her to people that way now, ever received that would allow her to properly manage a great household? The information that her potential match was a younger son had alleviated her panic not one whit; although her father was a highly respected physician, Molly still could not fathom how she had been singled out as an eligible potential mate for so powerful a family.

Then, when the eccentricities of the Holmes family were made known to her, and the fact that the elder brother, the one who would inherit the titles and estates and responsibilities of the earldom in future, had already sired five children – all of whom had survived infancy and were currently in robust health – some of her fretting eased. In such circumstances, a noble wife for the younger son was far lower a priority; rather, the family would concentrate on the strength of the bloodline as it pertained to producing Omega children, so vital as stabilizing influences on Alphas, particularly Alpha males. 

And although both Molly's parents were themselves Alphas, every sibling in either side of the family had been Omegas, as were all three of their daughters, Molly and her two younger sisters.

All of which had finally lead Molly to come to the conclusion that perhaps she would, indeed, make a suitable match for Mr. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. She learned very little about him other than his preference to use a name other than the one he was born with – much like her – and his family pedigree; he was said to be comely, with dark brown hair verging on black and changeable blue-green eyes. He was also said to be fiercely intelligent, and she wondered if he might be agreeable to a wife who was more than a feather-brained socialite, or if he would be one of the tiresome types of males who displayed their own advantages by dimming any such displays by others.

She wondered, in fact, a great many things about her potential husband…all of which had flown from her mind as soon as she’d laid eyes on him.

He was, indeed, comely, and his eyes shone with intelligence as she’d heard, although that intelligence had been dimmed as rapidly as her own, clouded by the lust that had overpowered them as each took in the sight and scent of one another. Her training and innate good manners had allowed her to continue to attend to Lady Holmes even though her attention was no longer on the older woman but entirely taken up with her youngest son. But when Sherlock had approached her, when she’d stuttered out her greeting and he’d taken her hand in his, all reason was swept from her. The sweet taste of his mouth against hers, the way his tongue had invaded and demanded reciprocation from her own was like nothing she’d ever experienced in her eighteen years. 

She craved his touch, the taste and scent of him, wished to breathe him and feel him filling her, Knotting her in ways she’d heard whispered about but of course had never experienced for herself. She’d been warned to expect pain and blood as all women did their first time, but her dearest Omega friend, Sally Donovan, had recently wed and reported to Molly that the haze of a shared Heat did much to alleviate any discomfort…and had blushingly informed a scandalized (yet titillated) Molly that Knotting was far more fulfilling than she could possibly have imagined.

And now Molly was to experience it for herself. Yes, it was only a Handfasting ceremony, but if she was impregnated then there would be no reason for a marriage ceremony not to follow. She daydreamed a bit of holding an infant in her arms, with her eyes and Sherlock’s glossy dark curls, and a smile drifted across her lips.

The sound of a knock at the door brought her attention back to the present; before she could do anything more than place her now-empty crystal wineglass back onto the tray Andrews offered her, Mother Hudson spoke. “Miss Hooper, pray break the vial and inhale the vapors. Then your parents will escort you to stand in front of me while we await Mr. Holmes and his family.” Her smile was serene, her voice calm, but there was a sparkle to her eyes that hinted at the joy she felt at performing this duty.

Molly obediently broke the vial and inhaled sharply, coughing a bit at the sharp scent that permeated her nostrils and seemed to drift to the back of her throat. She felt her nose numbing and all scents, no matter how strong, faded into nearly nothing. Then she rose to her feet as some of the restless urgency that had flooded her entire being seemed to subside, just the tiniest amount. Her parents entered the room and she managed a small, embarrassed smile for them both. Neither embraced her nor touched her in any manner, just remained on either side of her as they walked up to where Mother Hudson was waiting in front of the unlit fireplace. The French doors had been opened and Molly supposed it must smell like the beautiful spring day that it was, but she would have to settle for the lovely view of the rose gardens she glimpsed as she took her place.

Then _he_ entered the room, and everything else vanished from her mind.

**Sherlock**

When he could properly think again, for more than a few seconds at a time, Sherlock found himself completely at a loss as to how he should proceed, and loath to admit this strange feeling of helplessness, of being washed in a tide that had seemed no more than ankle deep, and yet threatened to drag him under. Before he could say anything, however, he found himself being rushed up to his private suite of rooms, with John and Wiggins on either side of him, upper arms held firmly in their grasps as if they anticipated he would bolt from them given the opportunity.

The further he moved away from his mate's scent – _Miss Hooper's_ scent, she was not his _mate_ , he wasn't an animal, for God's sake! – the clearer his head became, until by the time they'd reached his dressing room he was nearly himself again, although still feeling more than a little thunderstruck.

Thus it was that he said the first thing that came into his mind once he again felt himself capable of coherent speech. “Spontaneous Heat, what the devil is that?” he demanded as Wiggins attempted to straighten his disarrayed clothing and mussed hair whilst simultaneously thrusting a glass of scotch into his hand.

He accepted the scotch and irritably waved away the assistance, not giving two damns about his appearance at the moment. “Well, John?” he asked, turning to face his friend with a scowl. “What the devil is a spontaneous Heat? I've never heard of such a thing!”

John shook his head and sighed, one of his patented long-suffering sighs, of which Sherlock had been the unwilling recipient far too many times to count (2,754 to date). “You never retain anything useful in that big brain of yours, do you?” he asked, a ridiculous question Sherlock refused to acknowledge, much less respond to. “It's a simple matter of biology. Sometimes when a highly compatible Alpha and Omega meet, the potential for a Lifebond is so powerful it simply overwhelms them. Some even call it a blessing from the Gods,” he added with a sly grin, knowing full well how disdainful his friend was of religious beliefs of any sort.

Sherlock's scowl only deepened as he regarded John dourly. “You're enjoying this far too much.”

John simply shrugged and smiled before turning serious again. “I must confess, although I never anticipated such a strong reaction from you toward a potential Bondmate, I cannot fathom that you neglected to investigate such a possibility! Surely your parents spoke with you of such things?”

“If they did, I erased it from my mind,” Sherlock responded with an attempt at airy disdain that was belied by his continual twitching and pacing. “Why have you brought me here?” he asked as he belatedly acknowledged his surroundings.

Wiggins, who had left the room after Sherlock had accepted the glass of scotch, returned bearing a bundle of royal blue fabric in his arms – fabric that Sherlock recognized, even if he knew John would not. He rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. “Absolutely not,” he ground out through gritted teeth.

Wiggins, however, held firm. “Your parents have tasked me with reminding you that it is family tradition and must be upheld. Miss Hooper has already been suitably gowned,” he added, as if the knowledge that Molly was undergoing such archaic rites as he was no doubt about to be bullied into was some form of incentive for Sherlock to cooperate.

“What's this?” John asked, rising to his feet – he'd settled into the most comfortable chair in the room, as was his wont – and coming closer to examine Wiggins' unwanted offering.

“My father's betrothal robes,” Sherlock spat out distastefully, chasing the words with a deep swallow of scotch. “It would appear that my parents expect me to submit to a Handfasting ceremony.”

Predictably, John offered up a shrug. “Well, after that unseemly display in the receiving parlor, it's no wonder.” Although the words strove for disapproving, Sherlock didn't need to see his friends face to know the other man was smiling. “If Miss Hooper were my daughter, I'd expect not only a Handfasting but a speedy wedding as well. Especially,” he added, his voice suddenly more serious, “since your presence triggered a spontaneous Heat. You do know that the likelihood of your joining resulting in a child is all but inevitable, considering the circumstances.”

John had always been far too frank when discussing matters of a sexual nature, as far as Sherlock was concerned. Not that the idea of marital congress alarmed him, he assured himself as he felt a touch of heat flooding his face. Clearly he was still entirely too unsettled from that rather...incendiary...first meeting with the woman he silently acknowledged was destined to become his wife. Because yes, any parent upon viewing their virginal young Omega daughter (whose Heats had begun far later than was customary, else she'd have been married off by the time she was sixteen instead of being still unwed at the age of eighteen) locked in so passionate an embrace with an unattached Alpha male would certainly insist that such actions not be allowed to continue without at least the formality of a Handfasting. Which ceremony his parents were, no doubt, busily putting together at this very moment.

He should feel more distressed at the rapid disappearance of his carefree bachelor days, especially as he had always eschewed the softer emotions of sentiment and love in favor of nurturing his intellect. However, instead of dread, he found himself filled with a sense of...anticipation. Eagerness, he might categorize it, were he prone to such hyperbole.

As he argued half-heartedly with Wiggins and ultimately allowed himself to be stripped of his clothing and redressed in the voluminous – and entirely ridiculous – ceremonial robes, he realized with a sense of sudden trepidation that his clarity of thought was once again dissolving, even far removed from the disturbing presence of the Omega who had precipitated his current mental (and emotional, loath as he was to admit to it) turmoil.

This separation from Miss Hooper should not be so difficult to endure, yet it was rapidly turning into the longest hour of his entire life. John had slipped out of the room while Wiggins was fussing over the proper way the robe's matching belt should hang from his waist, returning after a few minutes to announce that Mother Hudson was expected to arrive within a half hour.

Sherlock returned to pacing the chamber as his mind clouded, images of Molly's nude form pressed against his plaguing his imagination. He was grateful for one thing about the robes; they were voluminous and easily kept his raging erection, which had sprung into existence almost as soon as Wiggins had finished tying the belt around his waist, from being easily noticed. He attempted to turn his thoughts to anything other than hazy visions of Molly Hooper bent over his writing desk while he covered her in his scent and allowed his prick to swell into a full Knot for the first time as he filled her. 

The fact that he had never done this before did nothing to discourage his fevered imaginings from running rampant, and by the time Wiggins returned to escort him to the receiving parlor, he was dripping with sweat, the scotch having done nothing to calm him as John had claimed it would.

Indeed, his friend still seemed entirely too complacent, too pleased with this turn of events; if Sherlock's wits hadn't abandoned him the same way his entire body's blood flow had diverted itself to his prick, he would have verbally skewered the man with some devastatingly clever quip. “Here, Sherlock,” John said, all signs of mirth vanished as if he'd been able to read his friend's mind. He held up a small vial, at which Sherlock stared, having no idea what he was seeing. “It's to help during the ceremony,” John murmured as they reached the foot of the stairs and paused there, Wiggins hovering nearby with a subdued air of excitement about him. And no wonder, the idiot had undoubtedly never been privy to so ridiculously melodramatic a situation as that which his master currently faced. “Break it under your nose and inhale deeply of the vapors,” John instructed, pressing the vial into Sherlock's hand.

His fingers curled around it automatically, and he nodded before doing as he'd been told. The vapors rapidly dulled his normally sharp sense of smell, and served to once again clear his muddied thoughts, although they remained more than a bit hazy.

Once John was satisfied that Sherlock had inhaled the entirety of the vial, he took it back, placed it in his waistcoat pocket, gave a satisfied nod, and escorted his friend to the parlor doors.

The waiting was over; it was time for Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper's Handfasting Ceremony to begin.


	3. The Long Awaited Moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for smut, John Watson having a dirty mind, Knotting, doin' it doggie style, and sundry other fun things.

**John**

To say that John Watson was finding this to be the most extraordinary day of his life would not be as much of an exaggeration as many might believe, despite the fact that he'd been injured during battle in Afghanistan, was married to a former American spy, and had assisted Sherlock Holmes on many dangerous and fascinating cases during their five year friendship.

However, to his mind, the sight of his friend about to enter into a committed relationship with a member of the fairer sex, even one so potentially impermanent as a Handfasting, was without parallel. The fact that Sherlock had had so immediate and visceral reaction to Miss Molly Hooper, going so far as to not only kiss her in front of his mother and Miss Hooper's shocked parents – not to mention his own humble self – but to appear ready to Mark and claim her for his own had been so entirely unexpected as to seem impossible. For a few, brief seconds, as he had gaped at the sight of Sherlock pulling Molly into a passionate embrace, John had been convinced that he was hallucinating.

Then his instincts – not to mention his hard-won medical training – had prodded him into action, causing him to spring to his friend's side as the kiss he and Miss Hooper were sharing threatened to become even more improper as the young lady's arms twined themselves about Sherlock's neck, and as his friend rapidly untied her bonnet and pulled it from her head. He'd run his fingers through her hair and undoubtedly would have begun undoing the buttons to her gown if not stopped, but by then John had reached his side, tugging at Sherlock's arm and realizing by the feverish heat emanating from Miss Hooper's slender form exactly what had occurred. He'd shared concerned glances with Lady Holmes, who took the opportunity of her son's removal of his mouth from that of Miss Hooper to administer a brisk slap to her son's cheek.

Now, as they entered that same room with virtually the same cast of characters as before, John found himself wondering if such actions would be required again before the ceremony reached its conclusion. Although Sherlock's gaze seemed clear and steady, there was no mistaking the flush that had arisen on his cheeks as soon as he took in Miss Hooper's ceremonially gowned form. Lady Iris's saffron robe suited the younger woman's petite form and coloring, but John had no illusions as to what Sherlock was currently admiring about her; it most emphatically was not her clothing.

Miss Hooper's hair hung to the small of her back in a loose braid, her cheeks were flushed even brighter than Sherlock's, and her eyes, which had been lowered modestly, now rose to meet the Alpha's as if drawn to his gaze by magnetism. Both sets of eyes – one a deep brown, the other a subtle blue-green – bore identically expanded dark pupils that rendered the colored irises mere rings.

It would do well, John found himself thinking with a combination of fond amusement and concern, if Mother Hudson were to shorten the already-brief ceremony to its barest minimum. Else the entire room would likely be treated to the sight of Sherlock tumbling Molly over the arm of the nearest chair, flipping her flimsy gown over her head and Knotting her without so much as a murmured request for forgiveness!

Embarrassed by the decidedly inappropriate direction in which his thoughts had wandered – and simultaneously wondering what his wife Mary was doing at this moment – John forced himself to focus on the words the priestess was speaking. While he'd been busy gathering wool like an untried adolescent at his first sight of an unclad female, the ceremony had, indeed, been going at breakneck speed. Mother Hudson's eyes flickered back and forth between the two participants as she chanted the familiar prayers for a fruitful and productive bond between the two (as if such a thing could possibly be in doubt!), then laid her hands over their heads, raising herself up a bit on her toes in order to keep her fingers from accidentally touching Sherlock.

The reason for her unseemly haste became abundantly clear as John noted the way Sherlock and Miss Hooper were almost devouring one another with their eyes, the way they’d started leaning in toward one another. Their clasped hands, bound together by the silken rope that symbolized the new bond being forged between them, were agitated, and one of Sherlock's fingers appeared to be stroking Miss Hooper's palm in a decidedly lascivious manner. However, it was the telltale flaring of Sherlock's nostrils that warned John that the blessings had best be bestowed upon them at an even swifter pace, unless Mother Hudson wished to revert to the old ways and have the gathered friends and family members bear witness to the betrothed couple's first act of sexual congress!

It swiftly became apparent that John was not alone in noting this; movement from the corner of his eye captured his attention, momentarily distracting him from the ceremony to which he was supposed to be bearing witness. It was Andrews and several other Beta servants, scurrying about the room; some laden with armfuls of the traditional furs that served as furniture coverings under such situations as the one they currently faced, others closing the French doors, drawing the curtains and removing all breakables with swift efficiency as Mother Hudson hastened to complete the ceremony. Apparently she and Lady Holmes had concluded that it would be unwise to attempt to remove Sherlock and his newly-betrothed to his private quarters, but had instead determined that this very room would become their trysting place.

As a medical man, he could not disapprove, no matter how unconventional the setting; at the rate the nasal suppressant appeared to be wearing off, any attempt to escort them elsewhere would likely result in blood being spilled – or else the happy couple tearing one another's clothing off in the middle of a corridor or on the stairs.

Once again thoughts of his beloved Mary – petite, fair-haired, delightfully curvaceous Mary – came unbidden to his mind, and he wondered just how quickly courtesy would allow him to remove himself back to London once the ceremony concluded!

The answer, as it turned out, was unfortunately ‘not until such time as Miss Hooper’s Heat has passed,’ or so Lady Holmes informed him when he went to make his excuses a few minutes later. Sherlock had managed to hold onto the ragged edges of his control while Mother Hudson finished speaking, had even kept the kiss he’d been instructed to bestow upon his betrothed somewhat respectable (although far from chaste), and everyone had been hustled from the room as decorously as possible, considering the fact that they were all attempting to ignore the fact that Sherlock and Molly were busy removing once another’s robes while making noises hardly suitable for anyone else’s ears but their own.

John, the Hoopers, and the Holmses – including Sherlock’s dour elder brother Mycroft and his wife Anthea – were currently gathered in a smaller parlor in the east wing of the house, far from the room which Sherlock and Miss Hooper – Molly, John supposed he should now think of her, since he was certain his friend would insist on dispensing with the usual formalities once he was returned to his full faculties – were no doubt tearing apart at this very instant.

John stifled a sigh at the way his thoughts continued to venture down such inappropriate paths, but it was to be expected; the scent of Molly’s Heat was quite strong and lingered even at this distance, affecting not only Sherlock but everyone else who had been in the room. He’d even witnessed Andrews and Wiggins discreetly adjusting their trousers at one point – and eyeing the two Beta housemaids who had attended Molly! No doubt there would be more than one infant born nine months from this date – and John fervently wished that one of them might be his own.

However, that would be impossible if he were unable to return to London, which brought him to his current irritation. “Lady Holmes, surely the family physician, or Dr. Hooper, would be better served attending to any needs your son and Miss Hooper might have once their confinement has ended,” he protested, only to be met with one of Lady Holmes’s patented icy glares, which ability her sons had both inherited – and were wont to use to devastating effect.

“Dr. Watson, my son trusts you above all others,” Lady Holmes said, ignoring her husband’s huff of annoyance at her words. “Pray write a message and I will have it delivered to the man who covers your practice when you are away – Harris, I believe is his name?” Her expression softened as she added, “And one for your wife as well, for of course if you are to be delayed here for such a length of time, offering you both our hospitality is the least we can do.”

There was a certain gleam of amusement in her eyes that told John that the older woman had easily discerned the real reason for his desire to leave their company so swiftly, and he felt a blush staining his cheeks as he stammered out his thanks. Lord Holmes had muttered something before silencing any protests as his wife turned her genteel glare on him, and John had refrained from either commenting or smirking as the older man turned and made his dignified – but hasty – retreat from the pair.

John followed Lady Holmes as she brought him to a small study not far from the parlor where the others remained. She waited for him to seat himself at the desk therein and avail himself of the writing implements before leaving him to compose his messages. John’s quill moved quickly across the pages, dashing off a quick note to the long-suffering Harris (who was in dire need of the money he might earn as his own practice was far from successful at the moment), and a slightly longer missive to his wife.

Mary would be by his side in no more than the time it would take for her husband's two messages to be delivered, as she always kept a bag packed for emergency overnight stays, both as a doctor's wife and because of her unconventional training from before their marriage.

John smiled fondly at the thought of his Mary. He could hardly wait until she was once again by his side, and not simply because of the current discomfort within his trousers. Nor was it merely that he loved her as he'd loved no other woman.

No, simply put, he looked forward to seeing the expression on her face when he explained to her how Sherlock Holmes had finally found the right woman.

**Sherlock**

Molly smelled…delicious. There was no other word for it. All the scents she’d exuded before – cinnamon and vanilla and the sharp chemical aroma he found so enticing – were beguiling him as Mother Hudson droned on and on about love and respect and whatever other boring nonsense the ceremony he was being forced to endure consisted of. Not that his mind was particularly receptive to anything at the moment, other than the need to take Molly into his arms, cover her with his own scent, and hear her howling his name with shared pleasure. She was his mate, they were meant to be together, and everything else was just so much window-dressing to make it seem much more civilized than it actually was.

Molly, it would seem, shared his impatience for all the fol-de-rol to be over and done with; as Mother Hudson had loosely fastened the silken rope around their wrists, the younger Omega’s fingers had gripped his tightly. She kept her lips resolutely closed, unspeaking and submissive in her pose as tradition demanded, but she was unable to keep her eyes modestly lowered, which fact his basic, most primal self exulted in observing. She was _his_ , his Omega, his mate; they would fuck and Knot and drink in each other’s taste and scent, and in the end, they would Bond and she would proudly bear his young and his brother could go sod himself because he would no longer be the only one with offspring to show the world his superior Alpha manhood.

A very small part of his mind was troubled by how easily it had been overwhelmed by instinct and need and lust, but that part was easily ignored, especially as Molly’s scent continued to strengthen the longer Mother Hudson spoke. The cadence of the older Omega’s words seemed to increase, which meant she, too, was aware that the suppressants were wearing off; good. The sooner this was over and done with, the sooner he and Molly could be alone to do as they both wished in this moment.

Finally the moment he had been waiting for – that they'd _both_ been waiting for – arrived: Mother Hudson's invocation ended, and the words were spoken. “As a symbol of your troth, pray exchange a kiss in the sight of this company and the Gods, and go forth from that moment as one.”

The kiss lingered, although Sherlock fought with the last remaining ounce of his self control to keep it from degenerating into something more appropriate to the boudoir than the parlor, and only barely achieved that goal. Then he felt Mother Hudson untying the Handfasting bonds from his and Molly's wrists and managed to wrench his gaze away from his Omega's face long enough to recognize the changes that had been wrought to the room, and what they signified, from the closely drawn curtains to the luxuriant piles of furs that now covered every flat surface in the room and lay piled on the floor. As the older Omega and the others made their way to the door, all reason completely fled; Molly's mouth-watering scent permeated the air, their gazes once again locked, and they crashed together in a tangle of limbs and desperate, hungry kisses that were in no wise to be considered 'proper'.

This time Molly needed no urging to open her mouth beneath his; his tongue slammed into her mouth and met with hers in an urgent duel as he felt her fingers tugging at the ties to his belt. The ceremonial robe dropped from his body with ease; he tugged her gown over her head and tossed it to land wherever it fell, then pulled the simple yellow ribbon from her hair and ran his fingers through the plaits, intent on freeing the chestnut tresses to his frantic touch.

Molly's hands were equally frenetic as they tugged at his own dark curls, eliciting a grunt of enjoyment from him as he lowered his face to her neck, inhaling deeply of the raw, musky scent of her Heat, his lips seeking the flesh above her rapidly-beating pulse and his teeth quickly sinking into the soft, warm flesh. His need to mark her, to make her his own, was overwhelming, an instinct he could no more fight than he could the tide.

Molly cried out as he worked the tender flesh, gnawing at it with his canines, some dim, distant part of him vaguely pleased for the first time at how much sharper they were than those of Beta or Omega males. They were not quite fangs, not like those of other predatory mammals, but were still designed for the tearing of flesh whether it be for nourishment of the body or, as in this case, nourishment of the soul. As his saliva and Molly's blood mingled, the Bonding process would be well on its way to completion.

He could put no name to the surge of emotion he felt at that realization, could spare no energy for analyzing it. Certainly not when Molly was pressing his head closer to her throat, arching her neck to give him better access, her scent driving him mad with desire as their naked forms pressed together. The points of her breasts bore into his chest, the heat of her skin like an inferno even against his own warmth, and he could feel a trickling dampness from her sex forming a sticky bond between their thighs as his teeth finally pierced her skin. Her blood was warm and salty in his mouth, and he heard her cry out as a wave of pleasure crashed over her body. He could smell the alteration in her as she achieved orgasm simply from the way he sucked so eagerly at her throat, and the thought of bringing her to that same peak whilst simultaneously reaching his own caused his already considerable erection to harden almost painfully, trapped as it was between their feverish bodies.

Responding either to her own needs or to the sudden urgency tensing his body, she tugged at his arms, pulling him down to join her on the pile of furs conveniently placed behind her. The softness of rabbit enveloped them as he sank down on top of her, but even in his current daze of lust he couldn't help but note that Molly's skin felt just as soft to him, and infinitely warmer.

“Sherlock, please,” she whimpered as he raised himself above her, her hands groping at him, one clutching his arm, the other moving down his body until she reached his...

He gasped as her delicate hand closed about the most overheated portion of his anatomy, and immediately lowered his mouth to her small but perfectly shaped breasts, mouthing each in turn and rasping his tongue over her nipples, suckling at them until they achieved what must surely be a painful hardness, although her moans and sharp mewls of pleasure told a different story. The need to further taste her suddenly overtook him, and he began to move his mouth down her body. His movements forced her to remove her hand from his prick, bringing a whimper from his lips, but the lack of contact was easily overlooked as the scent of her sex filled his nostrils, growing ever stronger the lower he moved on her body.

He came to rest at last with his face between her legs, which she most obligingly stretched apart to accommodate his presence, and when his tongue made its first, tentative swipe against her slick folds, the sound that emerged from her mouth was possibly the sweetest he’d ever heard; a sort of a gasping whine ending in a deep moan. Needing to be deeper within her, he pried her folds apart with eager fingers and snuffled, inhaling deeply of the intoxicating, musky aroma of her sex, tongue moving rapidly until, purely by accident, it landed on a particularly swollen nub. The contact seemed to electrify her, bringing a shriek of pleasure from her throat and nearly propelling her upright as her entire body went rigid with pleasure.

Her shriek continued to resound as he eagerly lapped up the juices that flowed continually from her female center, until suddenly her body went limp. Her hands, which had entangled themselves in his curls and had been tugging frantically at them, eliciting another layer of pleasure he’d never anticipated, fell by her sides, and she whimpered as she raised her head and begged him, in a raspy voice, to give her his Knot. “I need it, Sherlock, please, you cannot know how much I need you inside me right now!”

**Molly**

Had Molly retained even the slightest hint of control over her own higher reasoning processes, she would have been utterly appalled by the noises she was making. She would have been equally appalled by the wanton way in which she'd so eagerly shed her clothing in order to press her feverishly hot body against Sherlock's. A man whose acquaintance she had made only a few short hours earlier, and yet here they now were, Handfasted and undoubtedly already in the process of being Bonded to one another.

Another low moan escaped her mouth as Sherlock's lips and tongue so eagerly investigated what felt like every inch of of her burning flesh, lingering for a gratifying amount of time on her breasts. She cried out at the feel of his teeth tugging at her nipples, never having even dreamed how wonderful the slightly painful sensation could be. Pain and pleasure, pleasure and pain; it all seemed as one to her now, with one clear exception.

Simply put, she needed him. She needed more of him than just his mouth and hands on her body, although there was a brief moment of relief after he placed his lips on her female center and stroked her with his tongue. Within a few short moments he'd brought her to a height of physical ecstasy she'd never experienced even when driven to pleasure herself as an attempt to relieve the torture of her few previous Heats. Twice.

But none of it was enough; instinct and the lessons she'd been taught by her Omega Governess upon first putting up her hair and entering young womanhood both told her what it was she so desperately needed. Good breeding and decorum meant nothing to her now; in the delirium of her Heat, she cried out words that would have caused her to cringe and blush had she spoken them under any other circumstances. Even now, a part of her wondered at her unladylike behavior; had she, Miss Molly Hooper, truly just demanded that her Alpha give her his Knot?

'Her' Alpha. Yes, he was hers, she thought fiercely as he once again covered her with his body, pressing a series of urgent kisses to her lips while she reached down between them, desperate to touch his shaft, to guide it to where she most longed to feel it. He groaned out her name, and it sounded like a prayer to every deity officially recognized by the Church...and possibly a few of the proscribed ones as well, judging by the sinful way his voice jolted through her body, setting her still-simmering core once more aflame.

Before she could achieve her goal and slid the tip of his prick between her legs, however, he let out a low growl and grasped her firmly by the hips. “On your knees,” he rasped, eyes nearly black as his pupils expanded, much as her own must now be. His hands tugged insistently at her and she obeyed, releasing her grasp on his prick and putting herself on her hands and knees so that her backside pressed firmly against that part of his body.

She felt her body flush impossibly warmer, a fresh sheet of fire burning her from the top of her head to the soles of her feet before narrowing in focus to her aching female center. “Please, Sherlock,” she found herself begging as she widened her stance and ground herself against his straining cock. “Please, I need you, please...”

With a loud groan she felt him thrusting between her legs, the movements clumsy and unpracticed, yet resulting in exactly what her body most needed: his prick, hot and thick and lovely, pushing into her. He moved slowly at first, as if uncertain how best to proceed, but when she turned her head to look over her shoulder at him, mouth parted as her breath came in shallow huffs, all clumsiness and uncertainty fell to the wayside. She cried out as she felt him thrusting against her barrier, again and again until suddenly it collapsed against his insistent movements. He gave voice to what sounded like a strangled cry of triumph as he sank fully into her, resting for a moment before suddenly pulling partially out of her and then snapping his hips in order to press himself deeply inside her again, his hand clutching her hips tightly enough to leave bruises behind.

It burned a bit as her barrier was fully breached, but Molly barely noticed, too enraptured by the feel of him inside her to care about something as trivial as a little discomfort. The only way she would be able to describe it later (in the privacy of her personal journal) was to say that it was exactly what she'd never known she needed. The sense of fulfillment, of being with the one Alpha, the one man, who was meant to be hers, was like nothing else in the world. Better than her first taste of chocolate, better than the most satisfying novel she'd ever read, better than...well. Anything.

Dimly she became aware of the fact that she was sobbing, tears rolling down her cheeks to drip from her chin and wet the soft fur beneath her body. She was still moving, pressing herself back against Sherlock as he continued to thrust into her, his frantic movements bringing a delicious sense of friction that soon brought her to her third orgasm. The force of it was enough to finally cause his burgeoning Knot to form; she could feel the glands at the base of Sherlock's prick expanding, filling her even more, stretching her in a manner that felt so very, very right. Then he cried out, his hands digging into her hips as he achieved his own orgasm; she felt the hot gush of his seed in her womb and found herself suddenly riding a fourth crest as she joined him at the apex of physical pleasure.

She'd finally been Knotted, and it was everything she'd ever hoped it would be.


	4. Bonding Time

Sherlock shuddered and gasped as he reached fulfillment, leaning his sweating face against Molly's shoulder and pressing fervent kisses there. He'd never Knotted before, hadn't known what to expect in spite of a lifetime of what had seemed – at the time – tedious descriptions of the raptures to be had once he'd availed himself of an in-Heat Omega. 

Now, having finally partaken of such activity, he could admit (within the privacy of his own mind) that perhaps he had been wrong to ignore his body's needs for so long. Then again, he thought as he eased himself and Molly onto their sides, curling himself around her and rather enjoying how her petite form fit against his own, if he'd indulged his appetites before now, would this moment have actually occurred?

He pondered such things in the intervals between the ongoing physical pleasure that overwhelmed his mind, when Molly's core wasn't suddenly squeezed tightly against his still-swollen prick, milking more of his semen and eliciting equal moans of pleasure from both their throats.

When his Knot finally reduced in size and he was able to separate himself from her body, Molly reacted with a not-unexpected shyness, wrapping herself in a fur blanket and sitting up. Sherlock rose to his feet, not bothering to cover himself – why should he, when she’d already seen him fully nude, when he’d literally just been inside her sweet body? – and padding across the room on slightly unsteady legs, seeking out the tray of food and drink that surely must have been left for them.

Ah, there it was, just inside the door. He lifted the tray and carried it over to where Molly was sitting. She kept her eyes down until he’d taken a seat next to her, then offered him a corner of her fur covering – ermine, if he wasn’t mistaken – which he accepted with a smirk. Her shyness was quite alluring, and although normally he wouldn’t hesitate to chastise her for what could be perceived as unnecessary modesty, instead he restrained himself and allowed her to drape the soft fur across his lap as he began the ritual feeding John had advised him in the strongest terms not to forget.

Sharing food was as much a part of the Bonding process as Knotting and biting, although until this moment Sherlock had never understood why that must be; it wasn’t tied to their biology as Alphas and Omegas the way the other aspects most assuredly were, so why should it matter if he fed Molly or if she fed herself? However, as she accepted his offerings – sandwiches cut small enough that they fit easily between her dainty lips, strips of dried beef and assorted fruits – a surge of satisfaction rolled through him, startling him with its intensity. It was an astounding sensation, to know that this woman, his Bonded mate, was accepting food from his hands, trusting him to feed her and care for her beyond the physical sharing of their bodies.

They spoke not a single word during that brief interlude, but what was there to say, after all? The time for words, for learning things about one another – things beyond what he’d already deduced about her, of course, and possibly she about him since she appeared to have more than a modicum of intelligence in her eyes when not clouded with lust – would be after her Heat had passed and the madness of mating had been washed from their bodies.

A full week passed in such a manner, three days longer than such usually did, as a rather awed-sounding John Watson would inform him when he and Molly finally emerged from seclusion.

Molly's mother arrived to swoop her away as soon as Sherlock stuck his head out of the door and informed the red-faced footman who'd been about to lay a fresh tray of food on the floor that he and Miss Hooper were in dire need of fresh clothing and the use of the copper bathing tub. Molly had gently remonstrated with him after he retreated into the room, her own face nearly as red as that of the young man who'd hurried off to inform their parents that the two were ready to reemerge into public view. “Sherlock! You could have been more diplomatic with him, don't you think?”

He'd felt his forehead furrowing in confusion at her words (a reaction he would soon become used to). “Why? James is used to my ways, and there is certainly no point in pretending that we weren't fornicating like a pair of...of...wild otters,” he concluded, uncertain if otters did, indeed, fornicate, but they were the first wild animals that came to mind for some inexplicable reason.

Molly's flush had deepened and she'd wrapped herself tighter in the rabbit-fur cloak that was currently the only covering she had, their Handfasting clothes having been long since whisked away by some stalwart servant (while they slept, no doubt) for fear of permanent damage being wrought by the two of them during their...rather enthusiastic activities of the past seven days. She'd opened and shut her mouth several times, as if attempting to vocalize her thoughts but unable to find the right words. Sherlock had allowed this only for a few seconds before taking her into his arms and kissing her.

He found that he quite enjoyed kissing his betrothed, and could easily see that she felt the same way even as she attempted to protest the continued intimacy now that her Heat had subsided. Societal conventions were ridiculous under such circumstances, and he wasted no time in telling her so. “We’re betrothed, Molly, as good as married, and after the past week wouldn’t you agree that such coyness is a bit foolish?”

She had, indeed, conceded the point, but had absolutely refused to allow him any further liberties than kisses and embraces outside the confines of her fur coverings. And then her mother had appeared and all such liberties were, alas, at a temporary end.

Her scent had altered, and not simply due to the pungency of sex, although they certainly did reek. No, he suspected that the change was due to fertilization, although only time would prove his conjecture true or not. It could simply be due to the fact that they’d Bonded, but he had no way of ascertaining which possibility was more likely at the moment. It could even be both; further study was clearly required, and he looked forward to this particular research project with a great deal of enthusiasm.

First, however, a bath was definitely in order. John had examined Molly and pronounced her in good health, although Sherlock had refused the necessity for such an examination for himself. He was relieved to know that, in spite of the way Molly had limped from the room when her mother came to fetch her, she was unharmed by their intimacy. He was quite tender in certain areas, his muscles burning and aching in a pleasant manner that was remedied by the hot bath he entered as soon as he reached his rooms. For once he allowed Wiggins to assist him into and out of the copper tub and act, in his grumbling words, as a ‘proper valet’. Considering that Sherlock had discovered him in an opium den three years previous, he felt the title was hardly proper, but since the man had cleaned up into an exceptional assistant for more than merely laying out Sherlock’s clothing, he allowed him the commentary.

An hour later, clean, dry, dressed and once again presentable, he joined his family, the Hoopers and John and Mary Watson in the main parlor. He was displeased to see that Molly was nowhere to be seen; when he questioned his mother on it, she raised one elegant eyebrow and peered at him with her most disdainful expression, tempered slightly with what appeared to be sympathy as she took him aside and murmured, “Sherlock, surely you understand that the poor girl needs her rest. She has been given the Rose Room…”

“Then pray excuse me, mother,” Sherlock interrupted, uninterested in hearing anything else she or anyone in the room might have to say. “I’m feeling in need of some rest myself.”

He escaped before she could remonstrate with him regarding the improprieties of his behavior, but he’d long since learned to ignore such words when aimed in his direction, even by her. However, he was not to escape entirely unscathed; John caught up with him as he was heading for the stairs, tugging at his sleeve in order to bring him to a halt as he demanded to know where Sherlock thought he was going.

“You need to let her get her rest,” John said sternly. “Speaking as a physician, she is exhausted, undernourished, and, to be blunt, in a great deal of discomfort at the moment. I understand that you’ve Bonded, but surely even your instincts can be tamed long enough to allow her some time to recover from your, er, activities of the past week!”

Sherlock responded with haughtiest and most disdainful look, peering down his nose at the shorter man until John finally released his grip on his sleeve. “I am not an animal, John, in spite of what just transpired between Miss Hooper and myself,” he replied, telling himself his words did in no way sound suspiciously like a growl. “I merely wish to avail myself of her companionship, as there is a great deal for the two of us to discuss at this time.” When John responded with a politely disbelieving stare, complete with raised eyebrow, Sherlock huffed and folded his arms tightly across his chest. “We are Handfasted and Bonded; surely there is nothing improper in my seeking her company for some courteous discourse, John. Or do you believe that I am incapable of restraining myself around her in spite of her current physical discomfort? Pray recall that I share that discomfort to a certain degree!”

John flushed a bright red at his friend’s irritated words, but stubbornly continued to remonstrate with him. “Be that as it may, Sherlock, there has been no proper wedding, and Miss Hooper’s parents…”

“…are surely aware of the reasons for my hasty retreat from their presence just now,” Sherlock interrupted him to say. “There was no time for them to implore you to follow after me, so I am aware that you did so on your own. If you feel it necessary, give them my assurances that their daughter will face no unwelcome advances from me at this time. I merely…wish to be with her.”

He hated the sudden bewilderment in his voice, how lost he sounded, but it must have been the correct note to strike, however unintentionally, as John’s hardened expression immediately softened into something very like sympathy. “Yes, of course Sherlock, I understand, and I’m certain they will as well,” his friend hastened to assure him. This time the hand he laid on Sherlock’s arm was meant as a comfort, to underscore the sympathy and understanding he’d just expressed. “All I ask is that if Miss Hooper does not share your desire for such closeness at this time, that you respect her wishes and retire from her presence.”

“You have my word,” Sherlock replied, then offered John a small, tight smile before turning and hastening up the stairs.

oOo

Molly started at the sound of a quiet knock at the bedroom door, then raised herself to a sitting position on the bed, expecting either her mother or a servant bringing a tray of food as had been promised to her earlier. Unused to such coddling, she’d tried to protest that she could join them for dinner, but her mother’s gentle reminder that perhaps she needed more rest after her strenuous, er, confinement had brought a blush to her cheeks. Was she ready to face a room full of people who knew exactly what that ‘confinement’ had consisted of? Perhaps not just yet; it had been difficult enough greeting her mother and the kindly Doctor Watson and his wife. The physical examination she’d endured had been embarrassing but necessary, and Mrs. Watson’s presence had been almost as comforting as her mother’s.

She hadn’t needed anyone to tell her that her scent had altered considerably, even after she’d availed herself of the wonderful bath that had been drawn for her. Sherlock, she suspected, would now smell very similar to her, as Bonded pairs often did. Not always – and why that was so was still a mystery to theologians and medical professionals alike – but very often. Considering how precipitously her Heat had beset her from merely being in Sherlock’s presence, Molly had no reason to doubt that her assumption would prove to be true.

Doctor Watson had pronounced her in good health other than the obvious afflictions that beset an Omega after her first shared Heat, and she’d blushed at the sight of herself in the mirror as she changed into her nightclothes. The bath had been heavenly, but she hadn’t realized the extent of the bruises Sherlock had nipped into her flesh. She wondered if his was marked as much; she vaguely recalled biting the tops of his thighs and nipping at the solid flesh of his well-defined abdomen with its light covering of downy, gingery hair, and blushed even darker as the memories teased at the edges of her mind.

Much as his tongue had teased at the edges of her…oh, she was such a wicked girl, to be thinking such thoughts now that her Heat had subsided! She knew nothing more about her mate than she had before ever setting foot into the Holmes manor…well, that wasn’t entirely true. She knew a great deal about how much she enjoyed having him inside her body, the expression of sheer desire in his eyes when he was rocking above her, how his voice sent chills down her spine when he whispered things into her ear that no lady was ever supposed to hear…

A second knock sounded at the door, and she started and called out for whoever it was to come in. The pleasant smile she’d pasted on her lips morphed into a surprised ‘O’ when, instead of her mother or a maid, Sherlock entered the room, hesitantly closing the door behind him. They stared at one another for a long moment, and then Molly did what felt like the single bravest thing she’d ever done in her entire young life: she moved over so that she was closer to the center of the bed, and lifted the coverlet in an unmistakable invitation.

Sherlock joined her so quickly it was almost as if he’d flown to the bed from the door. Pausing only to remove his shoes and jacket, fumbling his cravat off as if it were strangling him, he joined her, wrapping his arms around her and resting his chin on top of her head. She reveled in the sensation of that long, lean body so close to hers without the fog of lust and Heat clouding her mind, and breathed deeply of his tantalizing scent. It had, indeed, altered, and although she was no expert at picking out the subtler notes that an Alpha would be able to immediately identify, it did, indeed, seem to her that Sherlock’s wonderful aroma was very similar to her own.

She inhaled deeply and emitted a delighted sigh, blushing as she felt him chuckling against the top of her head. Oh, she was being a silly child, wasn’t she? Why should she still feel so shy with him? He was her betrothed, the man she was going to marry just as soon as her parents and Lord and Lady Holmes could finalize the arrangements; they’d spent a rather strenuous but absolutely glorious week lost in one another’s bodies, and the proprieties could just…just…

“Go hang,” Sherlock murmured with a chuckle. “I quite agree, Molly. The proprieties can, indeed, go hang.”

Molly turned in his embrace so that she could stare up at him. “How did you know what I was thinking?” she demanded. She was not some superstitious simpleton, but if she were she would undoubtedly be denouncing him as a warlock.

“A simple matter of deduction,” he murmured, nuzzling at her throat and inhaling deeply – but being very careful, she observed, not to disturb the bandages that covered the scabbed-over wounds he’d left behind when he’d bitten her. Doctor Watson had applied a soothing ointment to stave off any chance of infection and she appreciated Sherlock’s gentleness as much as she did his friend’s medical expertise. “You clearly were waging an internal struggle even after allowing me to join you in bed; you remained stiff until suddenly you sighed and relaxed with a near-silent giggle. I was able to follow your train of thought quite easily, and concur with the conclusion you eventually reached.”

She mulled over his words as he adjusted their bodies so that he was lying on his back while her head rested on his chest just below his shoulder. His arms encircled her, and she shifted her body, wincing a bit at the throbbing ache between her legs, until one leg rested on both of his. “Well, in spite of that very impressive demonstration of your ability to read my moods and the movements of my body – if not my mind! – we still know very little about one another,” Molly felt constrained to remind hm.

“On the contrary, I already know quite a lot about you, and anything you wish to know about me you have simply to ask,” Sherlock replied.

Molly felt a blush spreading across her cheeks and closed her eyes in renewed embarrassment. “Mr. Holmes!” she hissed in a near whisper. “I was not referring to...that!”

His brow furrowed in obvious confusion. “That?” he echoed. “What the deuce do you...ah, I see,” he interrupted himself to say as her meaning made itself clear. He chuckled and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. “No, no, I wasn't referring to our sexual congress, although yes, there was a great deal I was able to deduce about your likes and dislikes from our week together – although I do not think it forward of me to offer my belief that perhaps those likes and dislikes might alter somewhat when you are not under the influence of your Heat, hmm?”

Her skin flushed at hearing him speak of their recent intimacies so casually. Of course, it was just the two of them and she had invited him to join her in her bed, so embarrassment seemed like a form of hypocrisy. His voice did delightful things to her body; even sore and exhausted as she was, just listening to him speak to her in such a low and intimate manner made her want to explore those likes and dislikes he’d just mentioned.

In order to distract her mind from such inappropriate thoughts, Molly asked the first question that popped into her mind. “What else do you presume to already know about me, Mr. Holmes?”

“Surely we’re well past the formalities,” he protested, and she readily capitulated to his request that she call him by his given name – or rather, his chosen name – when it was only the two of them. “And will you allow me to call you Molly?” he asked, his hand warmly folded over hers where it rested on his chest.

Of course she said yes; how could she not? Then she repeated her question, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Please, Sherlock, do tell me what you believe you already know about me?”

He tugged the hand he was holding up, so that her fingers could be clearly seen in the candlelight. “You’ve assisted your father with patients, acting as a nurse on several occasions. Not only that, but when he’s performed surgery, he’s allowed you to sew the patients back up again. There are scalpel calluses on your fingers,” his own, long digits rubbed gently against one such scar, “and the stitches repairing a small tear on the gloves you were wearing when we first made our acquaintance were never learned at the embroidery hoop, but by observing your father at work on his patients, and afterward being allowed to do that same work yourself.”

“Amazing,” Molly breathed, and Sherlock chuckled and squeezed her fingers affectionately before releasing them. “Yes, it’s true, my father has allowed me to assist him many times, had even considered allowing me to attend nursing school, but my mother was adamant that I marry, that as an Omega I did not require any kind of formal education.” The last was said without a single note of bitterness, but Sherlock heard the resignation in her voice and resolved privately to find a way to fund his wife’s education once their child – the one he was almost certain she was carrying at this moment – was born.

Molly continued, oblivious to this internal resolve. “She did, however, relent and allow me to learn what I could from my father’s teaching, he having convinced her that such an education would only prove to useful to me when running my own household. Especially as I was expected to marry an Alpha, and of course Alphas are always…”

Her words came to an abrupt stop and her eyes widened in distress. Sherlock could see that she was mortified at the thought of having insulted him, and he chuckled reassuringly. “Yes, Alphas are always getting into scrapes of one kind or another,” he agreed easily. “I do indeed feel that a wife who is able to patch me up after I’ve been assisting the Bow Street Runners in hunting down criminals could come in quite useful. And John will certainly be pleased not to have me pounding on his door at all hours, demanding medical assistance!”

They shared a laugh, and Sherlock entertained Molly for the next hour with tales of his and John’s exploits on the streets of London. They were interrupted by the arrival of the maid with a tray of food. Lucy didn’t so much as bat an eye at the sight of Miss Hooper and the younger Master Holmes lounging beneath the coverlet like a pair of sybarites, but judging by the amount of food and the presence of two tea cups and two wine glasses on the platter, she’d been warned to expect to find them thus. Molly thanked her nicely while Sherlock sprang to his feet to relieve the overburdened young woman of the tray, muttering beneath his breath about having a word with Andrews about allowing someone to assist her in future.

Lucy dimpled and curtsied, thanking him for his kindness, then left without a word to Molly. “I don’t think she likes me,” she confessed when Sherlock had settled the tray on the bed and rejoined her. She accepted the cup of tea he’d prepared for her and blew on it to cool it somewhat before cautiously taking her first sip.

“Lucy fancies me and has ever since she started working here,” Sherlock replied before stuffing an entire tea cake into his mouth and chewing enthusiastically. Molly raised an eyebrow at the sight – or perhaps at his casual revelation of the young maid’s feelings for him – and he swallowed hastily. “Sorry, hungry,” he said, knowing he didn’t sound at all apologetic. “Don’t mind her, one of the footmen, Harry, has had his eye on her for months now. She’ll go into a bit of a dramatic snit over my sudden lack of availability – although why she would ever think I would be so foolish as to enter into a dalliance with anyone in my parent’s employee is beyond me – and Harry will be there to swoop in and pick up the pieces. I predict a wedding within six months, a child within the year.”

Molly froze with her cup half-way to her lips, and Sherlock immediately understood that he’d somehow managed to say something to upset her. Before he could deduce what it might be – or even do the gentlemanly thing and simply ask her – she lowered her now-trembling hand and pressed her fingers to her abdomen. “A child,” she murmured, and only then did he realize that she hadn’t actually considered whether or not she was already pregnant.


	5. Ruminations on Living an Uconventional Life

A child. An infant, a baby growing inside her this very moment…yes, Molly had briefly envisioned a future with a child in it during the Handfasting ceremony, but the now that she and Sherlock had been intimate, the idea was no longer a daydream, a soap-bubble ‘what-if,’ but instead a very real possibility.

No, not merely a possibility; a likelihood. With as much…intimacy…as she and Sherlock had so recently shared, the likelihood of her already being with child was a near reality.

A reality she wasn’t entirely sure she was ready to face. Her life had already changed so radically from what it had been a week ago; then, she’d only been contemplating the remote possibility of a future marriage with the younger Mr. Holmes, and now she’d not only undergone a Heat with him and Bonded, but to also become a wife and mother, all within the span of a month? It was far, far too much to take in.

Suddenly the room was stifling, Sherlock’s presence in her bed a burden rather than a comfort. But how could she ask him to leave, when he’d been nothing but wonderful to her, kind and considerate, even when not caught up in the throes of passion?

Panic brought her upright, out of his embrace; she barely heard him calling her name as she scrambled from beneath the covers and slid over the edge of the bed, the cup of tea miraculously unspilt and still in her hand. Distractedly she placed it on the side table before turning for the door. She took only a few wobbling steps before her legs gave out beneath her, and she cried out, expecting to collapse to the floor.

He was there, holding her, cradling her in his arms, supporting her and keeping her from falling. Molly looked up to meet Sherlock’s concerned eyes, and felt the panic fade as quickly as it had arrived. “I’m sorry,” she murmured as he helped her back to the bed. He remained standing after she was once again lying against the pillows, the sheets and coverlet pulled up to her lap. “I don’t know what came over me. I do promise, I’m not normally prone to fits.”

“You panicked,” Sherlock replied, his expression neutral, but there was the slightest hint of…something…in his voice that caught her attention. Concern, perhaps? But concern about her or for her? “The realization of the changes in your life overwhelmed you.” He looked away, tucking his hands carefully behind his back before continuing: “I am…not unfamiliar with the sensation. The idea of suddenly becoming a husband and father, of becoming responsible for others…I considered running away, actually. Fleeing the country.”

The confession was unexpected and touching, and gave Molly back her courage. She reached out and waited for him to take her hand. She saw the uncertainty in his gaze, and smiled as she tugged lightly to indicate that he should rejoin her on the bed. He did so, reaching for the abandoned tray of food and urging her to take up the bowl of broth. “What convinced you to stay?” she asked after obediently swallowing down several sips, honestly interested in hearing his response. They still had so much to learn about one another, and suddenly she found herself contemplating a lifetime of doing just that…and finding the idea pleasant rather than nerve-wracking.

“In spite of my solitary nature, I still hold a great deal of affection for my family…at least, for my mother and nieces and nephews,” he corrected himself, still not meeting her gaze, instead focusing on the hand clasped around hers. “You should know now that my father and I have a rather…strained…relationship due to his own impetuous nature rather than my own for a change. My brother and I are, hm, a bit contentious as well, and his wife disapproves of me so violently she will only consent to allow me in the presence of her brood only under strict supervision.”

Although he was citing negatives, his eyes held a hint of mischief that Molly found endearing. She resolved privately to find some way to mend fences between him and his sibling, if at all possible, although now was not the time to broach the question of why they were not close. She couldn’t imagine being at odds with her sisters for more than a few hours at a time, but supposed it was as much to do with the fact that they were all Omegas, whereas Sherlock and Mycroft were both Alphas.

The Alpha in question ran his thumb over her knuckles, appearing to have temporarily lost himself in thought, and Molly fought to stifle a gasp at the sudden yearning that fell over her. Her body was still not yet recovered from their week of strenuous activities; how could she want him still, knowing that it would pain her to receive him inside her so soon? “And I suppose I have always known I would be required to settle down one day, although I had hoped to avoid such a fate, as it seemed the most tedious thing in the world,” he finally said, bringing her out of the temporary spell of lust that had overcome her.

Then he finally looked at her, a small smile playing on his lips and a hint of deviltry in his blue-green eyes, and Molly knew exactly why she felt as she did; if an attribute such as Passion could be given human form, he was surely the embodiment of it. Passion for his work, most certainly; the pleasure he displayed when speaking of solving crimes with Inspector Lestrade and Dr. Watson was unfeigned and enthusiastic. But she thought she was not being immodest in believing she detected a newer passion in him, one that she herself had sparked, and his next words confirmed that belief. “However, Molly, I do not believe that being married to you would ever result in boredom. You do not shrink away from my tales of dashing about London on the tails of criminals; your interest in what I have to say is genuine, and your work with your father has kept you from stagnating into yet another simpering idiot with no interest in anything other than fashion, gossip and children, although of course that may yet change.”

She raised her chin at the subtle mockery in his voice; was he deliberately baiting her now, after offering such a lovely, unsolicited compliment? “Any woman who contemplates motherhood must bear an interest in children, Sherlock, as must any man who contemplates fatherhood. How can I be certain that you will not turn into a…a...staid, cigar-smoking, complacent pater familias, content to do the rounds of the salons in the afternoon and the clubs and gaming halls in the evenings, leaving me to manage whatever household is ours after our marriage, only seeing our child or children for an hour every afternoon? Will you grow plump from giving up your rogue’s existence, will you take a mistress? Neither of us knows what the future will bring, but if you are up to the challenges before us, Mr. Holmes, so, most assuredly, am I!”

He studied her in silence for a moment, then smiled, a wide, delighted grin, before leaning down to press a kiss to her lips. “I do believe you are, Miss Hooper,” murmured when the kiss ended. “And once you have rested and regained your strength, I look forward to joining you in meeting those challenges.” Then he once again arranged himself beneath the covers, seeking no permission before taking her in his arms and settling her head on his chest. “Sleep,” he urged her. “No one will disturb us until the morning, and I assure you, I will be returned to my own chambers before your parents arrive and can pretend to be outraged by my presence in your bed.”

oOo

John returned to the salon after watching Sherlock virtually bolt up the stairs to join his betrothed. He’d cautioned him against pressing any physical attentions on the lady so soon after the end of her Heat, and been rightly chastised for thinking so poorly of his best friend. He chastised himself for it as well; he was a medical man, he knew how a newly Bonded couple often seemed to crave one another’s physical presence, even if it was merely to share the same room without even touching or speaking to one another. Shaking his head at himself, still bemused by all that had occurred in the last eight days, he reentered the room.

When he closed the door behind him he was confronted by several pairs of curious eyes, not the least of which were the blue orbs of his wife. Mary was smiling, a small, private smile that meant mischief for him when they were once again alone together, and suddenly the idea of abandoning convention and excusing themselves for the night held a great deal of appeal. He would never reward his host and hostess’ hospitality in such a crude manner, of course, but the temptation was rather difficult to resist, especially when his wife was looking at him in such a tender and affectionate manner.

The expression on Lord Holmes’ face, however, was enough to quell any such romantic thoughts; John had heard of people’s faces looking like a gathering storm, but this was the first time he could say he understood the phrase with absolute clarity. “I gather from your solitary presence, Dr. Watson, that my son will not be rejoining us?” he asked in that chilly, demanding manner that grated so harshly on John’s nerves.

He ignored the older man and instead turned to offer an apologetic bow to the Hoopers. “Their Bond is very new at this time, as we all know,” he said quietly, allowing his sympathy for their unease to soften his voice and knowing it showed on what Mary teasingly called his overly-expressive face. “I can assure you nothing untoward will happen while Mr. Holmes and your daughter…keep company with one another this evening.”

He could have lied and said Sherlock had retired to his own rooms, of course, but saw no point in doing so. Sherlock and Miss Hooper – Molly – were Handfasted and the wedding was scheduled for only four days hence; an unseemly haste under any other circumstances but those they currently faced. Mother Hudson would perform that ceremony as well, although Lord Holmes had grumbled a bit; like many male Alphas, he felt that such important duties should not be performed by a female – and a female Omega, at that! Fortunately his wife’s gentle remonstrances and the Hooper’s assurances that Mother Hudson would be more than acceptable to them had won him over, and he had subsided without a further word on the subject. The planning of a wedding, of course, was entirely the responsibility of the females involved.

The Hoopers thanked John politely for his reassurances, although it was clear from Mrs. Hooper’s continual glances toward the door that she would much rather go upstairs to chaperone her daughter than remain in the salon with the others. John politely moved away from her and her husband, who had placed a restraining hand on his wife’s arm and was murmuring to her quietly.

John was more than happy to join his wife and receive his temporarily abandoned wine glass from her hand. She smiled at him and he returned it wholeheartedly, whispering to her that Sherlock had promised to be on his best behavior.

“Ah, but what he considers his best behavior and what others would consider it isn’t necessarily the same,” she responded in a low voice, her smile turning decidedly impish before it vanished behind a ladylike sip of her wine.

John simply shook his head, his smile turning rueful as he acknowledged the truth of his wife’s words. Sherlock Holmes was, indeed, an unconventional man, one John counted himself proud to know in spite of the rocky beginning to their friendship. Considering that John himself had been a suspect in a murder whom Inspector Lestrade had been more than ready to arrest, it was a miracle they had any sort of a relationship at all! But Sherlock’s quick deductions had cleared John of the suspicion of murder of his previous lady friend, whose death he still mourned even four years after the fact. He’d actually met Mary at the graveyard, where he’d believed she was visiting the grave of a sister who’d died in childbirth, only to discover – well, Sherlock had discovered it, of course – that she was in actuality visiting the grave of a child whose identity she’d been given by the British government when she was recruited to their service as a spy.

He supposed it was fitting that the Mary Morstan he’d met that day hadn’t been who she claimed to be, since he’d hidden a great deal of his private life from her in the vain belief that she would turn away from him if she knew how he craved danger and adventure by the side of his best friend. Sherlock had been instrumental in revealing the truth of their situations to one another, then wisely left it to them to sort it out once all secrets had been stripped from them.

They’d married only a few months after that fraught confrontation at Sherlock’s Baker Street digs, and now, a year after that giddily happy day, they were still as much in love with one another as they had been, two Betas with strong Alpha tendencies who lived lives just as unconventional as Sherlock Holmes.

He hoped Molly would be able to accept the man for who he was once she had learned more about him, else their own marriage would be far less harmonious than his and Mary’s. He resolved to make himself available to her if she ever needed any advice or insight into Sherlock, but when he turned to Mary to explain himself to her, she smiled warmly and placed a hand on his arm, shaking her slightly. “I know,” she said softly. “We shall both be there to encourage her to understand him and, with luck, grow to love him as much as we do.”

John felt a suspicious moisture gathering in his eyes; how had he been so lucky as to find both a best friend and a wife who knew him better than he knew himself, who were always there when he needed them?

Fortunately at that moment the dinner gong rang. He offered Mary his arm, blinking away the pooling tears and covering his momentary lapse into utter sentimentality with a gruff cough. Mary didn’t smile, although her dimples showed, and he felt her hand squeeze his arm in a reassuring manner as they deposited their wine glasses on the tray Andrews offered them as they headed for the salon door and a dinner repast that would be well worth the wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt the need to delve a bit more into John and Mary's relationship, hope no one is bothered by the digression! More Sherlolly in the next chapter, promise!


	6. Pre-Wedding Jitters

“I can’t do this, John.”

Sherlock’s long suffering best friend – and Best Man, in the current circumstances – gave an exasperated huff that ruffled his mustache as he turned to face the nervously pacing Groom-to-be. “Yes, Sherlock you can. And indeed you shall, else I’m afraid you’ll have the entire Hooper family howling for your blood,” he said sternly, quelling his own sudden attack of nerves at the thought of Sherlock abandoning his bride-to-be simply because he was unhappy at the changes his life was undergoing. Oh, he wouldn’t be able to stay away for long, the ever growing Bond between the two of them would see to that, but to abandon his bride on their wedding day even temporarily would forever cast a pall over their relationship.

With that in mind, he reminded Sherlock of the truths his friend was trying so desperately to avoid facing. “Your fiancée is most definitely with child, Sherlock, and the Bond between the two of you is quite strong. Even if she were not enceinte,” he added, resorting to French as he felt his anxiety levels increasing, fed by the waves of agitation that fairly rolled from his friend’s body, “you could not in good conscience break things off with her at this point. You’re just nervous,” he added soothingly as he watched Wiggins following his master with an air of thinly-veiled exasperation only the best valets could seem to manage.

Sherlock’s response was to scowl and stalk away from his friend, with Wiggins trotting after him, hands reaching out fruitlessly as he attempted to once again tie Sherlock’s cravat, which lay loosened around his throat, flapping gaily every time he turned to pace his agitated way in the opposite direction he’d previously been facing. “Please, sir, do stand still,” Wiggins was finally reduced to begging, although the expression on his face was as close to murderous as John had ever seen it – well, ever since the man had been weaned from his opium habit and turned his life around. “The ceremony is scheduled to begin in less than an hour, and we still have so many preparations to make!”

Sherlock ran his fingers though his hair, ruffling the curls which had been so painstakingly brought under control only a few minutes earlier. John heard Wiggins utter a distinct groan before he temporarily ceased his attempts to corral his master into seating himself. “I’ll just fetch the whiskey,” he said resignedly, offering John a rueful glance before dashing out of the room.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Sherlock bounded to John’s side, a look his friend would later describe as veritably crazed in his eyes. “Quick, while he’s gone, get me out of this hellhole into which I’ve fallen!” Sherlock whispered, clutching John’s arm as if in need of physical support to remain standing. “John, I beg of you, if you hold any affection for me at all – more importantly, if you hold any affection for Molly – you’ll help me escape before it’s too late and I ruin her life forever!”

Ah, there it was, the true source of Sherlock’s anxiety. He did not fear the loss of his freedom, as John had first believed, but that he would fail in the new roles into which he was currently being thrust. The doctor felt the tension in his body, manifesting most strongly in the roiling of his gut, drain away, and he laughed as he patted Sherlock on the shoulder. His friend’s scowl deepened, which only cause John’s laughter to grow. “You’ll do just fine, Sherlock. Every man worries on his wedding day that he won’t find himself up to the task ahead of him, but we still plow on and do our best. You won’t disappoint Molly in any way, I can assure you – unless, of course, you do manage to run off and leave her at the altar.” His momentary mirth lapsed as he took it upon himself to grasp Sherlock by both arms and catch his gaze. “I beg of you, Sherlock, do not even think of doing such a thing to her. If you do, in spite of the Bond between you, I can guarantee that any chance she will ever love you will wither and die in that moment.”

He was left to wonder if his words had any impact for only a few seconds, before Sherlock’s anxious gaze sharpened into one of determination. “You’re right, of course,” he acknowledged as he moved over to his dressed and picked up his pipe. “I am behaving like a typical husband-to-be, which is ridiculous as I am not and never have been ‘typical’ in any way.”

He lit and puffed furiously on his pipe, moving with deliberation to stand in front of the open windows and gaze out at the grounds of his gracious family home. John appreciated that he was not to be the recipient of the noxious fumes from the vile shag Sherlock preferred to smoke, but was more amused at the fact that his friend felt the need, as always, to maintain his assumption of distance from the travails of humanity.

Well, marriage and fatherhood would likely do much to rob him of such ridiculous notions; yes, he was of a superior intellect to most, and his ability to correctly deduce information based on very few clues was astounding, but when it came down to it, he was as other men in many ways, including his Alpha nature. It would be interesting to see how being wed and Bonded to an Omega would alter his views and the manner in which he lived his life, although John suspected Sherlock of harboring a completely delusional image of himself as going on much as he had before, only with a wife and eventually a child to return to at night.

On second thought, however, John realized uneasily that such a scenario might actually be feasible, given Sherlock’s propensity to dash off at a moment’s notice. Molly was an Omega, which meant nature and the Gods had designed her to biddable, compliant to her Alpha’s wants and needs; would that mean, John wondered for the first time, that perhaps this marriage _wouldn’t_ cause his friend to temper his own impetuous nature more than he already had? Was Molly doomed to a lifetime of waiting at home for her husband to return from adventure after adventure, receiving his attentions only when her Heats overwhelmed him?

“Do stop it John,” Sherlock snapped, not bothering to turn from his position by the open window. The sun was setting, outlining his silhouetted form with a nimbus of hazy red and gold light. As was traditional, the ceremony was set to begin an hour after the sun fell below the horizon, followed immediately by a feast designed to last well into the night and often ending only at the arrival of dawn the next morning. 

Well used to his friend’s nearly miraculous ability to discern another’s thoughts simply by the pattern of their breathing or the way they moved even when out of his sight – aided no doubt by subtle changes in scent that only an Alpha would notice – John forbore from protesting that he’d said and done nothing. Instead, he sighed and moved closer to his friend. “Sherlock, I would never be so bold as to tell you how to live your life,” he began, only to be interrupted by a hearty guffaw from the other man’s lips. 

“Truly, John, I would berate you for speaking such nonsense were it not for the fact that you actually believe what you’re saying,” he grumbled. “But please,” he added, his tone striding the line between amused and condescending, “do tell me how to do so now.”

John huffed out an aggravated breath before plunging ahead, although a contrary part of his nature wished to simply leave the room and allow the other man to simply charge ahead and possibly destroy his own future happiness. “I wished simply to advise you to remember that it would be unfair to Miss Hooper…”

Again, Sherlock interrupted him, although this time with a sidelong glance that clearly showed the smirk on his face. “Do call her Molly, John, especially since she will be Mrs. Sherlock Holmes an hour hence.”

“Fine,” John responded through gritted teeth. “As I was saying, do try to remember that it would be unfair to Mi…Molly…if you were to continue your life as it was before, leaving her to fret over your absences and the danger you all too often insisting on placing yourself in.” Having said his piece, he huffed and turned to march out of the room, thoroughly out of sorts with his friend’s alternating teasing and testiness, when a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice serious enough that the older man stopped and turned to face him, surprised to see a hint of emotion other than disdain or amusement in his eyes. “Your advice…does not fall upon deaf ears,” he said after a moment. “Nor does it go unappreciated.” He cleared his throat and removed his hand from the shorter man’s shoulder. “I know that I have been a difficult friend at times, and that I have put both myself and you in harm’s way more than once, but I wish to assure you that I will do my utmost to spare Molly from living the life you are clearly – and quite unhappily – envisioning for her at this moment. Yes, there will undoubtedly be times when I am gone for days and return home injured and in need of medical tending, but in exchange I promise I will nurture her intelligence and not simply relegate her to the role of wife and mother, challenging as I understand those roles to be.”

He then proceeded to explain to John Molly’s interests, and his own plans to not only encourage those interests but to actively seek a way for her to become qualified, however unofficially, as a physician. John was astounded at the idea that any woman, especially an Omega, could harbor such ambitions, but was more than enthusiastic in his agreement to assist her in her goals in any way he could.

The time passed in animated discussion of ways to do so, interrupted only once when Wiggins returned with two glasses of whiskey, which the men downed immediately. Wiggins then retreated to the background until only fifteen minutes remained before their presence was required in the drawing room where Sherlock and Molly had been Handfasted; at that time, the valet insisted on attending to his master in order that he might make a proper appearance at his own wedding. Sherlock demurred, much to Wiggins’ apparent surprise, and allowed himself to be fussed over and made presentable while John stood by quietly and watched, somewhat awed at the sight before him. His good friend, Sherlock Holmes, was getting married, and in spite of his earlier attack of nerves, now seemed to be calmly accepting his future…no, not simply accepting it, John corrected himself with a contented smile. Looking forward to it with a great deal of anticipation.

oOo

Molly was nervous. She was so nervous she thought she might actually be ill, although it could as easily be a result of her pregnancy as well as her imminent nuptials. She was dressed in the traditional colors of rich burgundy and saffron, wearing her mother’s proudly –and hastily – done-over gown as was traditional, a pair of newly dyed slippers (burgundy, a shade darker than the panels of the loose, empire-waisted gown) – and literally nothing else. She blushed to think how unclothed she was, but tradition demanded that any Alpha-Omega pairing take place with ease of access, as it were, as the singular priority. Although she was already with child – and glowing with happiness at the thought now that her initial panic had subsided – it was not unheard of for a false Heat to overcome a new bride at her wedding, triggered by the strengthening of the emotional Bond that usually formed at such a momentous occasion. It was, to her mind, rather unfair that Sherlock was allowed to wear a suit and trousers rather than something as daring as her own bridal gown, but that was the way of the world at the moment, and she wasn’t going to argue with either her mother or Lady Holmes; they were both such strong-willed Alpha females that Molly doubted her ability to stand up to either for very long, let alone their concerted efforts!

Not that she’d voiced any of her thoughts aloud; after all, what difference did it make what she wore beneath her gown, when none would see it but Sherlock? There would be no maid to assist her tonight, not even a Beta (and certainly not another Omega!), only herself and her husband when they repaired to their chambers after the feast concluded.

Molly shivered at the thought of what would happen then. Would Sherlock wish to mate with her now that it was confirmed she was already carrying his child, or would he act as many Alphas (so her mother had warned her) did and want her only when she was either in Heat or still awaiting the moment a child would be planted in her womb?

Although many brides might be content if that were the case, Molly was not one of them. She quite looked forward to exploring her newly awakened sensual side, especially without the overpowering needs of her Heat keeping her from truly appreciating what was being done to her body. Sherlock had seemed to indicate a similar interest during their nights of chaste bed-sharing, but who knew what would happen at the actual wedding ceremony? The only times she’d truly seen him had been at meals (when he deigned to appear at all, a habit John Watson assured him was not unusual) and in the room she’d been given to stay in.

She hadn’t even been home at all during the past two weeks, her mother and various servants having been dispatched to fetch her belongings. She would be living here from now on, which was to be expected, but she felt a pang of homesickness now and again, at the thought of leaving her home behind forever – well, she chastised herself, certainly not forever, as she would always be welcome there, but the idea that she would no longer call it her home gave her a flutter of panic at odd moments.

Fortunately, all it took was a conversation with Sherlock to calm her worries. At least, it had until last night, the first night he hadn’t slept in the same bed with her. His parents and her own had insisted that the bride and groom sleep in separate rooms as a symbol of their restraint – a restraint, Sherlock had rather bitingly pointed out, they’d been practicing quite well when left to their own devices! – but he had been overruled and Molly had acceded to her mother’s pleas and asked him to allow their parents this small concession. “After all, we shall have many nights together in the future,” she blushingly reminded him when he glowered and pouted at her door. She’d kissed him softly on the lips, such a daring move for her, and he’d softened and returned the kiss, although far less chastely, leaving her breathless and a bit unhappy with her decision to do as their parents’ wished.

She’d spent a great deal of the night tossing and turning, her dreams feverish and quite explicit, featuring her future husband in all his glorious detail. Even if some disaster were to befall her in the morning, she reminded herself with a contented smile, no one could ever take away the fact that she’d seen him naked and held him in her arms.

And now, the time had almost come for her to change her name from Miss Molly Hooper to Mrs. Sherlock Holmes. The guests were arriving and taking their places in the parlor where she and Sherlock had first met (and done so much more, she blushed to think of it!). The ballroom of the Holmes manor had been transformed to a semblance of a medieval great hall, once again in service to tradition. Food would be served and wine and ale would flow well into the night. Molly had been urged to nap for several hours, which had been no difficulty since her growing child seemed to want her mother to do so, not only today but every day for the past week.

Molly’s younger sisters, Isabelle and Flora, twittered with excitement as they assisted one another with their gowns, fussing over each other’s hair and swooping down on Molly with loving hugs and kisses in between. She smiled to see them so excited; not only were they attending their first wedding and feast, but they were to stand with Molly – on the opposite side of Sherlock and John Watson, indicating their status as off-limits Omegas – during the ceremony. Their gowns were far less ornate than that of their older sister, in subtler shades of burgundy and saffron, and their hair was, for the first time, to be worn up, while Molly’s was to be worn down, hanging over her shoulders and decorated with a simple wreath of flowers and entwined ivy.

“You look lovely, my dear.” Molly blushed and ducked her head as Lady Holmes entered the room where she and her sisters were finishing their preparations. Mrs. Hooper had already left to join Molly’s father and the other guests, and now the mother of the groom had appeared to escort the bride to her son’s side.

Molly murmured her thanks and hastened to return the compliment, meaning the words quite sincerely. Lady Holmes was outfitted entirely in shades of crimson and black, but far from looking garish, her inherent dignity and perfect posture made the hues of her clan seem positively queenly. Molly’s mother was doing almost as well in her saffron and green, although privately Molly thought that her own clan colors did not work nearly as well with her complexion. 

She chided herself silently for thinking such uncharitable thoughts, and knew it was entirely due to nerves. When Lady Holmes offered Molly her arm, she accepted it, cradling the trailing bouquet of spring flowers and trailing ivy that her youngest sister, Flora, handed her. The girls had lost their frivolity the instant Lady Holmes had appeared in the room, knowing by her presence that the time for making merry amongst themselves was past. The wedding was about to begin, and their parts, although small, were important and not to be taken lightly.

Her part on the other hand, was decidedly central to the event. She allowed her sisters to fuss over the draping of her gown and the arrangement of her flowers one last time, then sent them ahead to open the doors and precede Lady Holmes and herself as they descended the stairs. Sherlock would be waiting for her, and it was all Molly could do not to fling herself down the stairs at a dead run, so strong was her longing to be with him. She’d managed to contain it, distracting herself with the dress and her sisters and mother, but now that the moment was at hand, her thoughts were only of her husband-to-be, and how desperately she wished not to disappoint him.

As they reached the head of the stairs, Lady Holmes paused and turned to offer Molly a reassuring smile. “You do look lovely, my dear; I wished to reassure you of that, since my son might not remember to tell you himself, as he so often forgets the pleasantries. But rest assured, he is as eager to become your husband as you are to become his wife, and his father and I are both quite pleased to welcome you to our family.”

Molly wasn’t entirely convinced of the truth of that statement, at least as far as Lord Holmes was concerned, but she heard the sincerity in Lady Holmes’ voice and responded to it with a grateful smile and a simple, heartfelt, “Thank you.”

With that, they resumed their journey down the stairs to the waiting guests and the rest of the wedding party.

Molly could hardly wait.


	7. Wedded Bliss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a discussion with a friend over ABO dynamics (not related to this story but just in general), it came up that Betas tend to get the short end of the writing stick, with all the focus being on Alphas and Omegas. Not that I have a problem with that, lol, but it did make me think that perhaps Beta sexuality needed some addressing. Therefore the chapter afer this one (which features not only the wedding but also Sherlock and Molly’s wedding night) will explore John and Mary’s Beta love, and also include the epilogue. Then the story will be finished!

Sherlock was fidgeting, and John was at his wits’ end as to how to calm his friend when he suddenly relaxed and stilled, a small smile coming and going so rapidly from his lips that John was unsure he’d actually seen it. His nostrils flared and John understood that the bride was on her way even before the footman made the announcement. He smiled and relaxed as well, pleased that the ceremony was about to begin and thus would soon be over. Not that he disliked weddings, but the weddings of Alphas and Omegas was so mired in tradition that they took roughly twice as long as any others. His own to Mary had taken place before a magistrate and lasted only a half-hour, and the two of them had been allowed to duck out of the marriage supper and depart on their honeymoon far earlier than an Alpha and Omega pairing. Unless, of course, the bride went into Heat again; that sort of uncertainty made for an interesting dynamic, although of course one would never admit to such a thing to anyone other than one’s wife.

While John was busy gathering such slightly embarrassing wool, Molly entered the room, accompanied by her sisters, her mother, and Lady Holmes. John’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought he heard a quick inhalation from Sherlock at the same time; however, when he turned to face his friend, his face was its usual impassive mask. 

Then the ceremony began, and John was too busy acting his part as Best Man to be overly concerned with Sherlock’s reactions to his bride. First he had to enact the ritualistic barring of the Alpha males attending the ceremony; he took the heavy bronze polearm and rushed to the door after the ladies had entered and clustered together at the opposite end of the room as the groom, blocking entry by Mycroft Holmes, his father, and Molly’s father. Thrice they demanded he allow them to witness the joining of their clans; thrice he denied them, only allowing access once Mother Hudson had approached and ceremoniously warned them of the consequences should any of them revert to the savage natures of their ancestors and disrupt the wedding. Once the promises had been made and accepted, John stepped aside, gratefully handing off the medieval (not to mention deucedly heavy) weapon to one of the footmen.

He caught Mary’s eye, and she smiled at him encouragingly as he returned to Sherlock’s side. The two men waited silently as Mother Hudson raised her hands and gave the first of the four blessings that would follow during the next half-hour.

oOo

The ceremony was, as expected, interminable. The only thing that kept Sherlock from rolling his eyes or fidgeting was the sight of his bride in her filmy gown, the veil light as gossamer on her unbound tresses doing very little to hide her from view. Not that such was its intent, although it had been in more primitive times, when it was believed that to see the bride during the ceremony would trigger an inconvenient Heat, real or false. Prior to even that outmoded belief (scent alone was more than enough to have such an effect, as modern science had ably proven), the veil had served as the only clothing an Omega bride wore, when she and her chosen mate, if not yet having shared a Heat, would consummate the marriage in front of the gathered witnesses at the conclusion of the final blessing.

The thought of doing so, of taking Molly in front of friends and family while Mother Hudson stood over their joined bodies and chanted prayers for fertility and marital amity, brought about a set of vastly conflicting reactions; his cock twitched at the mental image he’d conjured of Molly’s nude body bent over the nearest armchair, her lovely round bottom raised in the air and her pink sex peeking from between her legs, but his mind rebelled at the thought of anyone witnessing their most intimate moments. At the height of her Heat, of course, anyone and everyone could have walked in and stood around them, discussing their activities and sipping champagne, and neither of them would have noticed, but only under those particular circumstances could he imagine himself submitting to such exhibitionism.

He jerked back to attention as he heard the final blessing being bestowed, and turned to face John and accept the matching rings that would show the world that he and Molly now belonged to one another, legally as well as through their Lifebond. His friend’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, and Sherlock returned the affectionate expression before turning and waiting for Mother Hudson’s command to place Molly’s ring upon her finger. Then she did the same for him, her scent sharpening as he felt her desire for him through their Bond, their eyes meeting for the first time since she’d taken her place by his side. Her lips were parted, her eyes wide, and for a moment he wondered if she would, indeed, be drawn into a false Heat. Then the moment passed, her expression eased into a soft smile which he returned, and suddenly they were being instructed to share a kiss to symbolize their new relationship. The instruction was very similar to the one they’d been given at their Handfasting, but held a much deeper meaning now than when they’d been spoken two weeks earlier.

Sherlock lifted the filmy material that separated his wife’s face from his, clasped both her dainty hands in his much larger ones, leaned down, and pressed his lips to hers with a feeling as close to reverence as he’d ever felt. The silent room then erupted into the sounds of polite applause; he and Molly pulled back from one another and turned, still holding hands, as Mother Hudson proudly announced them as “Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock Holmes” to the gathered assembly.

Molly appeared somewhat stunned as the applause continued, but gathered herself as Sherlock gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and a quick smile before drawing her arm through his and taking the traditional stroll up the aisle the guests had formed for them. When they reached the doorway leading from the room, John and Molly’s sisters were right behind them, forming a barrier between them and the remaining guests and family members. Tradition was a damned annoyance at times, but this was not one of them; Molly and Sherlock were allowed to leave for an hour, to refresh themselves and recover from the lengthy ceremony, before their parents would arrive to escort them to the feast.

Tradition also called for the two of them to remain clothed during that time, but Sherlock had other things in mind; as soon as the door shut behind them in the chambers they would share from this day forward, he caught Molly up in his arms and planted a much less chaste kiss on her lips than he’d given her only moments ago.

Blushing and smiling, she protested his attentions in proper maidenly form, but he was having none of that, either. “Come, Mrs. Holmes,” he chided her as he lifted her into his arms and carried her over to his – their – bed. “Surely we are far, far beyond such coyness.”

“We are supposed to be resting, not further exerting ourselves,” she responded pertly, and his lips curled in an approving smile; in spite of her Omega nature, pure docility was no part of her character, and he would have it no other way. He showed his approval for her teasing response by kissing her again, quite slowly and quite, quite thoroughly. She showed her own approval by twining her sweet arms round his neck and opening her mouth obligingly beneath his when he nibbled at her lips.

The shy sweep of her tongue against him had him groaning with want; she was much quieter now that their intimacies were not precipitated by biology alone, although he felt her body burning warmly against his as he sat on the bed and settled her on his lap. The heat held nothing of true fever to it, merely the manifestation of her desire, the scientific portion of his mind reminded him.

Her desire for him, the rest of him retorted smugly, and he knew which part of his mind would come to dominate should he put it to the test this evening. He rested his forehead against Molly’s as their lips parted, eyes closed and breathing in the intoxicating scent of her, already so similar to his own that he could scarce tell them apart, yet with a soft, barely noticeable undertone he knew was due to the presence of their child in her womb.

The thought of fatherhood, far from destroying the mood he’d been attempting to create, only caused a further surge of fierce possessiveness in his chest. “You’re mine now, Mrs. Holmes,” he growled, for once allowing the beast that resided deep within his soul free rein. It was only one of a handful of times he’d deliberately invoked his Alpha nature; their shared Heat had been the most recent and the only one that had involved a member of the fairer sex in a romantic sense rather than the pursuit and capture of a criminal, but he recognized the exhilaration that seemed to buoy him at such times, and welcomed it.

“And you are mine, Mr. Holmes,” Molly retorted, her fingers running lightly through his hair, disarraying it and sending a very pleasurable sensation down the back of his neck. His cock, already hardening at the sensation of her delightful derriere on his lap, thickened to full erectness, and he had no doubts that he would soon have her begging for his Knot once again.

With that very goal in mind, he slid his hands up her body, approving of the lack of corsets and stays he felt beneath her wedding gown, which also featured ties rather than buttons, and precious few of those; in short, very little to come between him and his bride’s sweet body. When she blushingly confessed to wearing absolutely nothing beneath the gown but her soft-soled slippers, he wasted no time in setting her on her feet, spinning her around as she gave a breathless laugh, and undoing those ties as rapidly as he could manage.

Within seconds Molly stood before him, completely nude, her hair loose, flushed and nervous under his gaze but not attempting to hide herself in any way. He approved, and took a moment to appreciate the sight. “Lovely,” he breathed, then set to work on ridding himself of his own clothing.

Alas, that was a much more involved process, and he cursed a few times, Molly giggling and pretending to be shocked, as he freed himself of his boots and tore off his cravat. She took pity on him and finally began the process of unbuttoning his jacket and waistcoat; the sensation of her fingers on his bare skin as she helped him remove all of the clothing covering his upper body was like a shock, something unexpected and yet entirely welcomed.

Something he hadn’t even realized he’d missed in their chaste interactions since her Heat had ended.

He resolved to never let so much time pass between intimacies of this nature ever again; even if all they did was touch one another’s skin and trade languid kisses, it would be enough to satisfy the craving Molly Hooper – no, Molly Holmes now, to his immense satisfaction – had created in him.

“What are you thinking, husband?” she asked him, her fingers moving up to caress his chin and cheek while he foolishly lost himself in his thoughts.

In answer he took her hand in his and delicately kissed her fingertips, enjoying the sound of her giggles as he did so. “I am thinking, wife,” he replied, pulling her tightly against his body, “of how fortunate I am that my parents decided it was time for me to marry.”

“Indeed,” she agreed, lips still curved in a sweet smile as she reached around to toy with the curls at the back of his head. “Then I must say that I am equally as fortunate that my parents decided the very same thing at so convenient a time.”

He murmured his agreement before capturing her lips for a soft, tender kiss that rapidly turned hungry and possessive. The bandage had been removed from her neck, and he laid a series of nips and licks on the marks left by his teeth when they’d Bonded, instinct guiding him to reinforce his claim on her in the most primitive manner.

A manner she approved, if her happy moans and gasps were anything to go by, he thought with a satisfied smirk. Then she moved her head as he pulled his mouth away, and he yelped as he felt her dainty white teeth sinking into his own flesh, just over his pulse point. He held her close and closed his eyes as a white-hot sheet of purest pleasure washed over him; although he’d known that she would mark him at some point during the Bonding process, he hadn’t expected it so soon. 

“If we thought to keep our current activities private, wife,” he growled, looking down at her smugly smiling face as she lifted her mouth away from his throat, “then you have most assuredly destroyed any such desire.” Even the cover provided by his cravat would be of no use in disguising the further alteration to their scent, and the wound – he could see traces of blood on her lips, which she was in the process of licking away – would need to be seen to by John.

That, however, was for later, after their hour’s grace had ended. For now, he simply hauled Molly into his arms, lifting her and tossing her onto the bed. She landed with a squeal of laughter that quickly became a squeal of pleasure as he joined her, covering her body in a series of nips and kisses until his head was hovering over her sex. “Sherlock, no, surely that’s only something for when I’m Heat!” she tried to protest, but he was having none of that.

All such protests died as soon as his tongue and lips were on her body. The scientific portion of his brain still held some semblance of control, noting and cataloging the differences between Molly in Heat and Molly simply aroused. They were surprisingly few; her body still burned, although not as intensely, and the gathering moisture between her legs might not have coated her thighs, but the taste and texture was much the same. “Interesting,” he murmured. As if his words or the vibration they caused were all she’d needed, Molly gave a low cry, calling out his name as her body went taut and then abruptly relaxed.

He wasted no time in rising to his knees, gazing down at her flushed and still-shuddering form. Her arms formed a loose, open circle around her head, as if she were a ballerina stricken in mid-leap; her legs were bent at the knees and splayed apart in a thoroughly wanton manner, and all in all, he decided as he eased his body over hers, he’d never seen a more blatant invitation. One which he had no interest in declining.

She stirred and moaned as he entered her; he froze, fearful that he’d caused her pain, but then her eyes fluttered open and her arms moved up languidly to embrace him, and he understood that it was not discomfort but desire that moved her. Even though he’d already brought her to climax – even though he’d been lead to believe that few Omegas achieved such outside of their Heats – she was still eager for his touch.

Perhaps, he mused, the two of them could perform a series of experiments, exploring the limits of both male and female sensuality within the confines of the marriage bed; such a learned text might be of use for future couples who had limited experience such as he and Molly had had at the start of their admittedly still-new relationship.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, a repeat of her earlier question, still spoken in a tone of fond amusement. He marveled at the woman he’d married; surely any other wife, seeing such signs of distraction in such intimate a situation, would take offense.

Not his Molly. No, she understood him, after only two weeks of knowing him, better than anyone outside of John and Mary Watson. Who understood him far better than his own family ever had, he realized in a flash of understanding. “I was thinking about the many ways I wish to please you,” he replied, honestly and holding nothing back from her. “And of the possibility of writing a scholarly work on Alpha-Omega dynamics in the marriage bed.”

She raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing, her lips once again curving into a warm smile as he finally began moving against her body. Her hands on his shoulders, she tugged him down for a lingering kiss, this time initiating the entanglement of their tongues rather than waiting for him to do so.

He gasped and stared down at her, once again finding himself surprised by her boldness. If she continued to surprise him as she had so far, then he foresaw a very pleasant future for them both.


	8. Happily Ever After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Well, here we are folks, the end of the road. Thank you as always for the lovely reviews, and for following and favoriting. Thanks to Kathmak for her excellent prompting and off I go to finish (hopefully) another WIP and perhaps get the numbers down to single digits before more plot bunnies attack. :)

“That was a lovely ceremony, wasn’t it?”

John smiled and embraced his wife, not resisting the urge to kiss the tip of her nose before answering. “Yes, it was. Quite lovely. And Sherlock and Molly only slightly shocked people when they returned from their ‘rest’ in need of medical assistance for his neck injury.”

They were alone in their room, for their last night at the Holmes manor before returning to London and resuming their interrupted medical practice. He had already changed into his dressing gown and nightshirt; Mary was wearing only her chemise and drawers, having discarded her wedding finery and corset while he changed. She had not yet donned her nightwear, as John had rather enthusiastically interrupted her evening ablutions – the taking down and brushing of her lovely golden hair, the application of a bit of night cream for her alabaster complexion, and so forth – but there was nothing unseemly between a man and his wife conversing in such a state.

Mary giggled before kissing John back, although not on the nose. “Ah, well, it was only a matter of time, my love,” she said reflectively as she settled her head against his shoulder. John’s arms encircled his wife’s petite form with no conscious thought needed. They fit together so well, he and Mary, with none of the drama and potential danger that often faced Alpha/Omega pairings. No one was likely to challenge his for ‘ownership’ of the woman he loved; their Bond was entirely voluntary, with no physiological compulsion behind it, which, to John’s mind, made it so much better than what his friend and his new wife had just endured. Oh, he had no doubts that Miss Hooper – Mrs. Holmes, now – would make Sherlock a fine match, but not having to endure what the pair of them had gone through during the past few weeks was quite fine with John Watson, thank you very much!

However, he still tended to wonder if his Mary, his sweet, loving Mary with her past as a government agent and tendency to tease him about Knotting and all that entailed, was as entirely satisfied with him as he was with her. Yes, they shared an emotional Bond, but even that could be got round if one were determined enough. He was confident of her love, but unsure of his own appeal and always had been. His adventuresome past in the military and the excitement of chasing after criminals with Sherlock didn’t seem enough, to his mind, to make up for the fact that, at heart, he was rather dull.

Mary, either sensing his emotions through that mellow bond, or reading his thoughts on his face as she was wont to do, tightened her hold on him. “I do love you,” she said. “And I demand that you stop thinking such horrible thoughts about yourself. You’re not boring, and I am very content with our life together.”

He held her face tenderly, but the kiss he gave her was fierce and passionate, leaving them both gasping for breath. “Entirely satisfied?” he asked, his voice husky with sudden desire.

“Well,” Mary replied, pretending to a thoughtfulness he knew full well was far from sincere, “perhaps I am not entirely satisfied at this particular moment in time.”

“And what of our life in general?” John asked, smoothing her hair back from her face and pressing another kiss to her nose. “Would you say it is satisfying overall, or would perhaps a few small changes be to your liking?”

Mary wrinkled her nose and pulled out of his embrace; alarmed, John reached for her, sensing her growing ire as she crossed her arms and stamped one unshod foot. “Damn him!” she exclaimed, the depth of her irritation demonstrated by her use of profanity. “I told him I wanted to tell you myself!”

John gazed at his wife in growing bewilderment. “Who? Tell me what?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, chagrined as it became obvious he had no idea what she was talking about. “He didn’t tell you, did he. Oh dear!”

“Who didn’t tell me what?” he asked, relieved that her brief burst of temper appeared to have receded, but still unsure why it had arisen at all. “Mary, is something wrong?”

“Oh, no, darling!” she replied, rushing back to him and holding him close. He returned the embrace but with a sense of caution, as if she might once again capriciously pull away. She turned her face up to meet his, beaming as she explained, “It’s just…at dinner. Before we were seated, you recall that Sherlock pulled me aside?”

John nodded; his friend, had, indeed, pulled Mary aside and whispered something to her that had made her blush and that she had refused to explain. Since that was very often the case with the two of them – a less secure man might fret over the possibility of an _affaire de Coeur_ – he had paid it no mind.

“Well, you know how keen his sense of smell is, particularly now,” she continued, then raised her eyebrows and fell silent, clearly waiting for her husband to make some connection or other.

It took a moment of puzzling over it before the light dawned, and John gazed down at his wife in unfeigned delight. “You mean…are you certain? I mean, yes, of course his sense of smell has been temporarily heightened, but the man is hardly infallible…”

Mary silenced his babbling with a kiss and a smothered giggle. “Yes, and it would do that great ego of his a service to hear that now and again, but no, John, in this case he is entirely correct. You and I are going to be parents roughly nine months hence.”

John gave a whoop of joy and lifted Mary in his arms, swinging her around and then peppering her face with kisses. He then scooped her into his arms in spite of her laughing protests, carrying her over to the bed before gently settling her into the middle and climbing in next to her. Their lovemaking was gentle and unhurried, a confirmation of the love they shared, and all worries that Mary found her life or her husband unexciting were banished. 

When they were settled comfortably next to one another, properly clad for sleeping and all lights extinguished, Mary gave a soft laugh from where her head was resting on her husband’s chest. “Now what?” John asked softly, reaching up to stroke her hair. She had braided it but as always had declined to wear a night-cap, as had he. He’d lost the habit during his military duty and she had disdained it from childhood, claiming she felt smothered with the ties under her chin and her ears covered.

“If we have a girl, and Sherlock and Molly have a boy, perhaps one day we’ll be guests at their wedding,” she answered with another small giggle.

“Oh, I can just see that now,” John sighed, shaking his head. “The Holmes-Watson nuptials, with Sherlock’s father still glowering at me and Mycroft’s brood standing witness…well, with any luck they’ll both be Betas and be spared some of the ups and downs of an Alpha-Alpha or Alpha-Omega marriage,” he concluded optimistically, if somewhat doubtfully.

“Oh, if Sherlock Holmes fathers a son I believe there’s no doubt that he’ll be miniature of his father, right down to his Alpha nature,” Mary replied happily. As if she looked forward to future confrontations such as all Alpha parents faced with their dominant offspring. Frankly, John found himself in agreement with her, although he spared a moment to pity Molly; being caught between Sherlock and an Alpha son by him would no doubt turn out to be a very trying position indeed. However, from what he’d witnessed of her so far, he also had no doubts that she would have any and all children by Sherlock eating out of her dainty little hand as assuredly as she did her husband.

**Epilogue**

Twenty years later, as John and Mary stood and watched their eldest daughter, Isabella Jane Watson, pledge her troth to William Henry Holmes, eldest son of Sherlock and Molly, they each remembered quite vividly the conversation they’d shared on their dear friends’ wedding night. As predicted, there were many travails that Molly had to endure with so unpredictable a husband; he spent many a night sleeping in the Watson’s guest room, truly bewildered as to what he might have done to cause his wife to be so cross with him, but he gradually learned. His son was, indeed, a miniature of him both in looks and in nature, a true Alpha from a preciously young age; however, all three of his younger sisters were sweet-natured Omegas for whom both he and his father were ferociously protective. 

Isabella, surprisingly enough, was also an Alpha, although her two younger brothers and three sisters were all Betas. The courtship between her and William had been tumultuous, to say the least, but here they all stood at last, tears in Mary and John’s eyes – and Molly’s and possibly Sherlock’s although he was certainly not going to admit to such! – while their families were joined in holy matrimony.

When the bride and groom withdrew for their hour of ‘rest’, it was Sherlock who of course had to spoil the mood by gloomily asking, “What do you suppose are the chances they’ll come back downstairs without requiring medical attention for neck injuries?”

Molly scolded him, her face a becoming shade of pink; Mary and John both hid their laughter behind patently false throat-clearings, and fortunately no one else was close enough to hear the father of the groom being so gauche in mixed company.

And when Isabella and William appeared, each sporting signs of hastily re-donned clothing, mussed hair and, most tellingly, the edges of white bandages peeping from beneath their collars, only Molly’s warning glare kept her husband from commenting on any of it.


End file.
